As human as anyone

by Jaiden113

Summary:

“Can I paint his nails?”

Lex blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“I said, can I paint his nails?” she repeated calmly. “Something simple. Black maybe. He likes black.”

Lex pressed the heel of his palm to his temple. “Eve. He wears full tactical armor. He has gauntlets reinforced with alloy plating that can crack a battleship. He is not going to be admiring his cuticles.”

“But I will,” Eve said, with a little shrug, dipping her fingers into a small makeup pouch she’d hidden in her lab coat. “It helps me focus. And he'll sit still for it.”

Or: Ultraman makes a friend.

Chapter 1: Genesis

She really shouldn't have been missing the weaponized clone of Superman created by her ex boyfriend. 

He... it? Had after all been nothing else but a way for Lex Luthor to flash his intelligence and imagined superiority over the world. 

Still, Eve had at least a few fond memories of Ultraman, even if he was clad in purple body armor from head to toe and donned a mask which made his presence in any room feel more eerie than anything else in most of those memories.

---

The hum of machinery filled the sterile chamber, deep beneath the LuthorCorp tower, where the lights always buzzed half a second too late and the air carried the faint tang of ozone. Eve Teschmacher walked in cautiously, heels clicking against polished steel tiles, her voice echoing down the hallway.

“Lex?”

No answer.

She stepped inside the room, expecting the usual clutter of half-finished schematics and narcissistic models of cityscapes with LuthorCorp logos etched in gold. But it was quiet. Cleaner. Empty.

Almost.

At the far end of the chamber stood a containment tube, tall and gleaming like a test tube meant for something much too large. She moved closer, frowning. Her eyes adjusted to the dim, bluish light of the display panel—and then she saw it.

A figure floated inside.

Broad-shouldered. Perfectly still. Skin pale as moonlight, hair floating dark and uncut in the nutrient fluid. Its body, though mostly obscured by the thick glass and swirling suspension gel, seemed… familiar. Alarmingly so.

As she reached the platform, the being’s eyes—closed a moment ago—snapped open.

Eve gasped and took a step back. The thing moved. Not with curiosity or warmth, but with a jarring, fluid precision. It rotated slowly in the gel, until it faced her completely.

Then it glared.

Eve’s heart pounded, but she stood her ground. Something in her—a blend of fear and a bizarre kind of pity—kept her feet rooted. She took a breath, then lifted her hand.

She pressed her palm to the glass.

The being inside hesitated. Its face, almost fully obscured by the forming mask over its lower features, leaned in. Then slowly—mechanically—it raised its own hand and pressed it opposite hers. It didn’t blink.

The metal door behind her hissed open with a pneumatic gasp.

Lex Luthor’s voice followed immediately, sharp and casual all at once. “I wouldn’t get too sentimental, Eve. He’s not a puppy.”

She jolted, stepping away from the tube, the moment broken.

Lex strode into the room with a tablet in hand, dressed sharply in a dark suit that practically glittered with self-satisfaction. He walked right past her, as if the whole thing were perfectly normal. “Prototype’s progressing ahead of schedule,” he muttered, glancing at readings. “Muscle regeneration stable. Cognitive patterning… still a work in progress.”

Eve turned to him, still breathless. “What is that?”

Lex smiled, faintly. “That, Eve, is humanity’s answer to a god.”

She stared at him, aghast. “You cloned Superman?”

He looked up from the tablet. “A single strand of hair,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Salvaged during one of his more dramatic battles downtown. Impossibly durable. Almost beautiful under the microscope. Did you know his hair doesn’t decay the way ours does?”

She blinked. “You—wait. You cloned him? You actually—”

“Yes.” Lex’s tone was light, like he was discussing a wine vintage. “And improved him. No petty conscience. No moralizing. Just raw power, unfettered by farmboy compassion or Kryptonian restraint. I call him Ultraman.”

Eve looked back at the figure in the tube. “He doesn’t look… happy.”

“Good,” Lex replied, tapping a sequence into the console. “Happiness is a luxury. He was built to serve a purpose.”

“And what purpose is that?” she asked quietly.

Lex’s gaze narrowed. “To win.”

---

Lex had not of course won, having actually lost in rather spectacular fashion.

Perhaps if Eve's current plan did not work, the news would chock her apparent suicide up to lingering trauma from that disaster of a relationship.

"Ma'am please hold on! Help is coming!"

The wind tugged at Eve’s coat as she stood precariously on the edge of the six-story building, arms stiff at her sides. Below, the cacophony of panicked voices—tenants, pedestrians, a few early responders—rose in a messy chorus of disbelief and urgency.

“Ma’am, please! Stay where you are!”

“Don’t do it!”

“Help is on the way—just hang on!”

Eve didn't respond. She stared at the sky.

Not at the street. Not at the growing crowd or the flashing lights of the police cruisers boxing off the intersection. Her eyes never left the clouds, dull and indifferent above the skyline.

He wasn’t coming.

Three minutes had passed.

Then five.

Then eight.

The firefighters had arrived, unfolding their ladder with the slow, deliberate professionalism of men who had done this too many times before. One of them started up, calling out to her with a calm voice.

“Ma’am? I’m just gonna come up real easy, alright? Just stay where you are.”

She took a breath.

Okay, Eve, she thought. You gambled on the myth showing up. Time to see if the myth still works.

She jumped.

Gasps erupted from the crowd. The firefighter cursed as he scrambled to reach, already too late. Eve’s scream tore through the air as the world flipped and spun and gravity dragged her down.

And then a blur of red and blue disturbed the air. Hands—strong and warm and impossibly fast—caught her, mid-fall.

The momentum twisted, but not harshly. In a single, effortless motion, she was cradled in his arms as they floated down the final few feet. Her hair whipped across her face as wind howled around them. A beat later, her boots touched solid ground.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Superman straightened and took a half-step back, scanning her face with that impossibly gentle concern of his. “Are you alright?” he asked, calm and kind and maddeningly heroic.

Eve blinked.

He looked the same. Somehow more than she remembered. Stronger. Kinder. Tired, maybe, if one looked closely enough.

She took a breath. “I’m fine. Yes. I just—” Her voice faltered, then regained footing. “You saved me.”

He nodded. “That’s what I’m here for.”

She seized her moment.

“No. I mean—you really saved me, but—listen, I’m Eve. Eve Teschmacher.”

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Lex Luthor’s assistant,” he said. Carefully neutral. “I remember.”

She winced. “Former assistant. It’s… complicated. Look, I didn’t jump to die, okay? I needed to talk to you. Privately. And I didn’t think you’d come if I just sent a letter.”

He raised an eyebrow slightly, the ever-subtle alarm bells likely ringing behind those calm blue eyes.

“Please,” she said.

The moment stretched, quiet and heavy.

Then Superman nodded, just once. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

"Okay," Eve sighed in relief, "where do you want to—"

Without warning he raised them both back up into the air, casting a brief look down at the emergency responders still crowded in the street. "It's alright officers, I'll take it from here. She'll come in later so you can file an incident report."

"You're the man Supes. Wrap it up boys!"

---

The lab lights flickered again.

Eve hated that.

Not because it signaled any real malfunction—LuthorCorp's underground R&D facilities were over-engineered beyond reason—but because it always seemed to flicker right when he lost his temper. Like the walls themselves were reacting.

And Lex Luthor was most certainly losing his temper.

“This is unacceptable!” he bellowed, slamming the flat of his hand onto the console. “He doesn’t even understand what the mission is! You say reconnaissance and he tilts his head like a dog!”

Across the room, Ultraman flinched at the sound—not from fear, but from sheer, reflexive tension. He stood where Eve had left him, barefoot and stiff, one arm hanging awkwardly at his side, the other still slightly bruised from the last sparring trial. His hair had grown past his shoulders, wet and heavy, half-matted with the synthetic oil the med-bots used to rehydrate his scalp. He blinked slowly, watching Lex, silent.

Eve, sitting on a stool beside him, gently ran a wide brush through that tangled hair with practiced patience.

“Maybe if you didn’t scream every time he didn’t perform like a trained poodle,” she said dryly, “he’d have a better chance at remembering the difference between east and west.”

Lex scoffed, already flipping through a data tablet. “Memory indexing isn’t the problem. The problem is that his mind is rudimentary at best. All the physical advantages of a Kryptonian body and not a single ounce of intellectual coherence. I built a war machine, not a damn paperweight!”

Ultraman made a faint noise—half curious, half wounded—but didn’t speak. His vocabulary was limited: under a hundred words and most of them commands. “Up.” “Down.” “Stop.” “Smash.” “Lex.” “Eve.”

Sometimes “Mine.”

Never “Me.”

Eve leaned in closer and untangled another knot from his hair. “He’s trying,” she murmured to Ultraman. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Ultraman’s lips twitched into the closest thing he had to a smile, though it vanished quickly when Lex turned toward him again.

“I told you not to coddle it,” Lex snapped. “The brain tissue is already unstable enough. We don’t need imprinting confusion layered on top of that.”

“He’s not a puppy, remember?” Eve replied coolly. “You said so yourself. But you also said you built him to win. And if you want him to be more than a blunt instrument, you’re going to have to give him some room to be. Not just bark and punch on command.”

Lex looked at her like she had suggested they dress him up in doll clothes. “What would you have me do? Sing lullabies? Read him bedtime stories? He can’t even hold a pen the right way.”

Eve paused, brushing halting just behind Ultraman’s ear.

“Can I paint his nails?”

Lex blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“I said, can I paint his nails?” she repeated calmly. “Something simple. Black maybe. He likes black.”

Lex pressed the heel of his palm to his temple. “Eve. He wears full tactical armor. He has gauntlets reinforced with alloy plating that can crack a battleship. He is not going to be admiring his cuticles.”

“But I will,” Eve said, with a little shrug, dipping her fingers into a small makeup pouch she’d hidden in her lab coat. “It helps me focus. And he'll sit still for it.”

Lex gave her a long, unreadable look.

Ultraman, for his part, had already obediently held out one large, open hand. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but Eve’s presence was soft, and the world usually hurt less when she was around.

“Fine,” Lex muttered, swiping away a notification on his tablet. “But he’s wearing gloves to the field test. You can paint his toes for all I care—no one’s going to see them.”

Eve smirked faintly and popped open the bottle. “Well then, I guess we’ll start with his thumbs.”

She reached out and began painting Ultraman’s thumbnail, slow and careful, while he watched her with rapt fascination—fascinated not by the color itself, but by the way she touched his hand as if it didn’t terrify her.

Lex turned away, muttering under his breath.

Ultraman didn’t move. But he looked down at his hands, paint gleaming faintly in the sterile glow, and said—just once, almost too quiet to register:

“…mine.”

Eve looked up sharply.

Lex didn’t notice.

But she smiled.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Mine too."

---

"That was a very reckless thing you did."

Superman’s tone wasn’t harsh, but it held just enough weight to make Eve flinch. They stood atop a secluded rooftop, the kind of place he used for moments like these—out of sight, out of reach, surrounded by nothing but air and the low hum of the city below.

Eve rubbed her arms sheepishly. “Yeah. Okay. But you caught me, didn’t you?”

He didn’t smile. Just looked at her quietly, his cape fluttering softly behind him.

“I mean it,” he said. “That could’ve gone very wrong. There’s always a chance I’m off-world. Or injured. Or… too late.”

“I know,” she said, quick now, words tumbling out. “I know. But I didn’t know what else to do. I tried tagging you on social media, I tried messaging your official foundation email, I even tried DMing Lois Lane—”

“You did what?” Superman’s eyebrows raised slightly.

“She has that pinned tweet about crisis leads,” Eve said defensively. “I thought it was worth a shot!”

“I don’t use social media,” he said, tone dry.

Eve groaned. “So you’ve never seen #Supershit?”

Superman gave a slow, pained grimace. “Please don’t say that phrase again.”

She held up both hands. “Fair. Sorry. But look, I didn’t jump to be dramatic, I swear. I needed to talk to you, and I figured if you saw me fall, you’d show up.”

“You shouldn’t gamble with your life.”

“I wasn’t!” she insisted. “Not really. I knew you’d catch me.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“You hoped I would."

That shut her up.

Eve looked away, blinking too fast, brushing hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I did.”

Superman let out a long breath, the kind he reserved for people who meant well but made his job ten times harder. “So talk. Why am I here?”

Eve hesitated. Her bravado faltered. She bit her lip, looked at the edge of the building, then back at him.

“I want you to bring him back,” she said.

Superman blinked. “Bring who back?”

“You know who,” she said. “Ultraman. Your clone.”

His expression froze—just briefly—and then shifted into something neutral. Carefully so.

“I don’t even know if he’s still alive,” Superman said. “Or where he is. The last I saw, he was pulled into the rift's gravitational collapse during the fight in Metropolis. That was it.”

Eve stepped forward, heart in her throat. “But if there’s a chance—any chance at all—you could try. Right?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re Superman,” she said. “You know black holes aren’t impossible for you. And don’t you have friends who know how this stuff works? Like, weird genius friends? You fly into other dimensions for brunch sometimes, don’t you?”

“I don’t—brunch?” He squinted. “What do you think I do all day?”

“Look, point is,” she pressed, “you could ask someone. That Mister Terrific, maybe? He builds teleporters for breakfast, right?”

Superman hesitated. 

“I’m not saying you owe it to me,” she continued. “But he… Ultraman... he didn’t ask to exist. He's as much a victim of Lex as any of us. He didn’t choose any of it. He wouldn’t even have harmed a fly unless Lex told him to. Can't you give him a second chance?”

Superman looked at her. Really looked at her.

And in her face, he saw the thing that always moved him most in people.

Hope.

He exhaled, slowly. “Mister Terrific might know something,” he admitted at last. “I can ask. But no promises.”

Eve blinked. “You mean it?”

“I said I’d ask. That’s all.”

A smile broke across her face, small and grateful. “That’s more than I thought I’d get.”

Superman turned toward the sky, already preparing to lift off. “Don’t jump off any more buildings.”

And then he was gone—up into the clouds, vanishing with a ripple of wind.

Eve stood there for a long moment, the breeze tugging at her coat again.

She looked at the horizon, whispering to no one:

“Hang on, sweetheart. I’m coming.”

---

“Psst! Ultraman!"

The whisper echoed off the lab walls with just enough urgency to make the clone’s head jerk upright. He was seated alone on the examination platform, legs dangling, shoulders slightly hunched beneath the weight of his armor’s inner frame. The outer layer had been removed for diagnostics, revealing pale skin threaded with bio-conductive veins. Scanners pulsed faintly around him, ignored for the moment.

Eve peeked through the lab’s maintenance hatch, already half-open, her smirk lighting up the dull utility hallway beyond. “C’mon, big guy. You’re being kidnapped.”

Ultraman didn’t move at first. His blank gaze tracked her carefully, uncertain. But the moment she motioned with her fingers—her specific “follow me” wiggle—he hopped off the platform.

A minute later, the two of them crouched in one of LuthorCorp's least-used sub-basement storage rooms. The walls were lined with outdated model parts and old drones still wrapped in protective foil. Eve had cleared a spot near the far wall and set up a little blanket and a battery-powered makeup mirror that gave off a soft, pinkish light.

“Okay,” she muttered as she took a look at him, brushing back his hair with one hand and frowning deeply. “Who scrubbed you?”

Ultraman tilted his head slightly.

“Your nails. I painted these last week. Black with that little silver star stamp. Where’d it all go?”

He made a low sound in the back of his throat. Not quite a word. Just a soft grunt of confusion. She sighed.

“Let me guess: someone decided it was non-mission essential again.”

She reached into her coat and pulled out her emergency cosmetic pouch like it was sacred treasure.

He watched her unzip it with rapt fascination.

“Unacceptable,” she muttered, pulling out a small nail buffer, a bottle of polish, and a wide-tooth comb. “And don’t get me started on this mop. Who let your hair get this bad?”

Ultraman, very still, let her begin to detangle it with the calm patience of someone used to being fussed over by exactly one person in the universe.

“You know,” Eve said as she worked, “they really should be combing your hair at the very least.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched her in the mirror as she brushed out the tangles. His eyes flicked to the comb, then back to her face.

Eve made a low noise of approval as she finished taming the last stubborn strand. 

“There. Now…”

A tiny pink bow.

Ultraman blinked.

She fastened it carefully in his hair, tying it just above his ear. “You look adorable,” Eve cooed with a smile.

He stared into the mirror, not quite sure what to make of the reflection. Ultraman slowly lifted a hand and touched the bow.

“Eve.”

She blinked. That was the first time he’d said her name that day. First time he had said it in possibly a week.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

Ultraman nodded faintly, then turned back to the mirror.

Eve sat beside him, watching his expression flicker in the reflection. She reached out and rested a hand on his.

Chapter 2: The Velveteen Rabbit

“Looks like you’ve got competition,” Cat Grant said, slapping her latest article onto Jimmy’s desk with enough force to send a ripple through his workspace, half a dozen loose papers fluttering to the floor.

Jimmy Olsen blinked up from his coffee, startled. “Cat, you ever think about using email like a normal person?”

She leaned on the desk with that trademark smirk, her red nails tapping a syncopated rhythm against the wood. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jimmy sighed and picked up the article. “Superman’s Save: Exclusive Eyewitness Account of Rooftop Rescue—And the Woman Who Made Him Stay” The photo underneath taken by a drone showed Superman cradling Eve Teschmacher as they touched down on a rooftop.

“You’re reaching,” Jimmy said, skimming the column. “All you’ve got is a dramatic photo and a quote from a guy who thinks he once sold Eve a hot dog in 2018.”

Cat raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying Superman doesn’t have mysterious rooftop rendezvous with former LuthorCorp insiders?”

“I’m saying,” Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair, “that you’re making something out of nothing.”

“Really?” she asked, arms crossed. “Because I tried calling her yesterday for a comment. Straight to voicemail. No follow-up, no call back. You?”

Jimmy hesitated just long enough. “I called. Once. Didn’t pick up. Probably overwhelmed or something.”

Cat’s eyes gleamed. “Overwhelmed. Or maybe too busy being carried into the clouds by a guy who can hear radio waves.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes and folded the article in half. “Look, if Superman wants her, he can have her.”

“Jealousy’s not a great look on you, Jimmy,” Cat said, sing-song.

“I’m not jealous,” Jimmy said, a little too fast, before adding with a shrug, “She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just… you know.”

“Just?” Cat pressed, cocking her head.

“Friends.” Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “We were friends. Sort of. I mean, I was just trying to help. She’s been going through a rough patch since the Lex Luthor thing.”

Cat opened her mouth to say something else, but a soft ahem from the next desk over cut through the room like a teacher calling the class to order.

Clark Kent looked up from his laptop, glasses low on his nose. “I don’t think there’s anything going on between Eve and Superman.”

“And what makes you say that, Smallville? Got insider info from your pal in blue?”

Clark pushed his glasses back up. “Just a hunch.”

Jimmy frowned. “You think she was faking it? Jumping like that just to get attention?”

Clark’s eyes softened. “No. I think she was desperate. But not for attention. For help. That’s different. And who better to get help from than Superman?”

Cat tilted her head, scrutinizing him like he was a particularly juicy lead she hadn’t cracked yet. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, Kent.”

Clark offered a faint smile. “I just like to think that I know what Superman would do. And what he wouldn’t.”

Jimmy looked back down at the article with a frown.

Cat’s smirk faded, just slightly. “You’re a good guy Jimmy. But sometimes? Good guys don’t always get picked first.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy muttered, folding the paper again and setting it aside. “Story of my life.”

Clark glanced at him. “You okay?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Just hope she’s okay. That’s all.”

---

Birth should not have been such a confusing thing.

And yet—he was born into confusion.

No pain, no cries, no blinding light of a real delivery room. Just awareness, sudden and jarring. Like waking from a dream he’d never had, in a body he didn’t understand.

He floated—somewhere—not quite conscious, not quite asleep. The world around him was white. Not sterile white. Not fluorescent lab white. Just infinite from every possible angle.

Shapes began to form. Two figures stood before him.

Man and from him, woman, dressed in silver-lined robes that shimmered with symbols he couldn't read, with a single crest across their chests like a rising sun.

They spoke, but the words were water.

Ripples through his mind, half-familiar, entirely meaningless.

\::Kal-El... our hope... carry it with you...::

Their voices weren’t unkind. They were sorrowful. Heavy with memory. With meaning. With finality.

He didn't understand.

The white faded to golden fields. A wooden porch. A sky smeared with the soft orange of dusk. Another pair, aged and warm. Man in flannel. Woman in an apron. Their voices were gentler, their hands rougher. They smiled at him like they knew him.

\::You're safe now, son... it's alright...::

But the words still didn’t stick. They passed through him like wind through a screen door.

He blinked and found himself between these scenes—caught in a tug-of-war between two impossible homes.

The white. The field. The man in silver. The woman in flannel. The crest on their chests. The smile in their eyes. The ache in his chest.

He didn’t know what he was.

He didn’t know who he was.

Names flickered—like lightning behind the eyes. Not spoken nor taught.

\::Kal-El::

\::Clark Kent::

And then, almost as an afterthought—

\::Superman.::

He shuddered and curled into himself, limbs drawn tight, eyes wide with newborn terror. The infinite space stretched and folded around him, too big for someone who had never learned to breathe.

He let out a choked noise—less a sob, more a gasp—and gripped at his own arms like they might fall apart. His fingers clawed at his chest, as if he could tear away the confusion, the dissonance and the wrongness of it all.

He didn’t know if he had been made or meant.

And worse still, he didn’t know if there was anyone in the universe who wanted him.

Somewhere, far away, the world of men called him Ultraman, yet they provided no company.

He was alone.

Alone.

Crying silently in the endless white, hoping anyone would come and tell him what he was supposed to be.

---

"Are you crazy man?" Mister Terrific asked, looking at Superman as though he had just suggested the most bizarre thing in the world. Quite possibly because the suggestion he had put forth was in fact the most bizarre thing in the world.

Superman didn’t flinch. “You’ve seen the readings. You were there. He was pulled into the collapse, not destroyed by it.”

“Right. And the building next to it was destroyed. So was the riverbed. And it would have eventually gotten to the sky too!” Terrific threw up his hands. “You remember that ripple effect? The gravitational drag that almost pulled the city into the great unknown? That was your clone’s grand exit. The moment that made me swear never to poke that wound again.”

“I’m not asking you to open the rift,” Superman said. “Just to look into the possibility. Eve Teschmacher believes he’s still alive. That he’s—”

Terrific cut him off with a sharp look. “You’re not seriously letting Lex Luthor’s ex dictate my personal interdimensional protocol, are you?”

“She’s not working for Lex anymore. She never truly was,” Superman replied evenly.

Terrific stared at him a long moment, then huffed and turned toward the hallway. “Not my problem. I’ve got enough nightmares keeping me up at night without chasing after rejected science projects that might be festering in the bleed of reality. And besides…”

He opened the closet near the galley and pulled out a rolling cart. It was stacked with various brands of off-brand cereal.

“It’s my turn to restock the pantry. Democracy’s a pain in the ass.”

He rolled past Superman without another word.

Superman sighed and took a seat on one of the sofas, hands clasped loosely. The red-blue of his cape pooled behind him like a memory.

A beat passed.

Then a voice, only a little awkward, spoke from the corridor.

“Uh… hey."

Superman turned as Metamorpho approached with a sheepish smile. His mass was hunched in a vaguely humanoid shape, but he still looked like a patchwork of molten bronze, limestone, and chemical vapor.

“Hey Rex,” Superman said. “How have you been?”

Metamorpho scratched the back of his head, making a faint scraping rock-on-rock sound. “Yeah, y’know. Just… hangin’ in there. Joey’s good. Real good. He’s got this stuffed bunny he won’t let go of—won’t sleep without it. We named it Wonder Wabbit.”

Superman smiled faintly. “That’s good to hear.”

Rex lingered, shifting awkwardly. “I, uh, overheard some of that between you and Terrific. Not all.”

Superman glanced sideways. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I was getting peanut butter. The good kind, from the back fridge. Guy likes to hide it behind the protein bricks like that’s foolin’ anybody... anyway, Terrific’s got a point. That rift’s bad news. But… well… I’ve been lookin’ through some of his backup diagnostics. Just to learn, y’know? For when I eventually graduate from Gassy Rock Guy to Useful Member of Society.”

Superman raised an eyebrow.

“And I think… maybe,” Rex said carefully, “there’s a way. Not to reopen the rift—that’d be suicide—but to echo its signal and open a miniature version of the pocket dimension and its black hole. Like tossing a sonar ping into the dimensional echo chamber.”

Superman straightened. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “I wouldn’t say anything if I wasn’t. I mean, I’m still working out the math, and it’s not exactly foolproof, but… I think there’s at least a small chance it'll work.”

Superman considered his words. “Terrific won’t like this."

“I’m not doing it behind his back,” Rex said quickly. “I’m just… y’know. Thinking. The files are open to all of us. I haven’t even touched anything locked.”

Superman stood. “If you can figure it out safely, I’ll help. But I don’t want anyone put at risk. Not you, not Joey, not this team.”

Rex nodded. “Deal. Give me a couple days. If there's still a signal out there, I’ll find it.”

As he turned to go, Superman called after him. “Rex?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

---

"1A."

He punched the stiff bag in front of him.

"1A."

He punched it again.

"1A."

And again.

"8C."

Ultraman hesitated. That sounded different from what Lex had been saying before. Different sound meant he had to do something different. But what?

"8C," Lex said again from the other side of the room, tone dripping with impatience. “8C!” he snapped, pacing now, shoes clicking sharply across the training floor. “It’s a simple grid pattern, you oversized paperweight! It’s not quantum theory!”

Ultraman blinked again. His fists, still raised, twitched slightly as if trying to solve the command through sheer muscle memory.

“Wrong again!” Lex barked, slamming his tablet down on the control podium with a clatter. “This isn’t difficult. I programmed these coordinates into your training matrix three weeks ago. We went over this.”

Ultraman flinched—not at the volume, but at the tone. That tone meant failure. That tone meant… bad.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Lex muttered, waving a dismissive hand and storming out the side exit. “Maybe if he knocks the rest of his brain loose in the next ten minutes, he’ll figure it out.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Ultraman stood very still, staring at the point where Lex had vanished. His fists slowly lowered. His shoulders drooped. Then, without a sound, he crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings—knees pulled in, arms wrapped around himself, head ducked.

The air around him seemed heavier somehow. Like the silence had thickened.

Eve, who had been leaning against the far wall the whole time, finally pushed off and walked over with a soft sigh.

“Lex is a meanie,” she said gently, crouching beside him.

Ultraman didn’t move. His fingers picked at the seam of his gloves like he was trying to disappear into them.

“He doesn’t mean everything he says,” she added. “Well… actually, no. He probably does mean at least half of what he says. But you don’t have to listen.”

She reached up and carefully, slowly, pulled off his mask.

Underneath, his face was pale and damp with sweat, hair matted to his forehead, jaw clenched tight—not in anger, but in effort. Like he’d been holding himself together for hours and was still afraid he might fall apart.

Eve set the mask aside. “Better.”

He didn’t lift his head. But she could see his eyes now, unfocused and glassy, like he was lost in a place without signs.

“Hey,” she murmured, rummaging through her coat pocket. “Wanna do something way more fun than stupid codes?”

One eye flicked to her hand as she pulled out a tiny box of nail polish bottles—glittery, bright, totally against Lex’s dress code. She shook one: a sparkling green that caught the overhead lights like flecks of emerald.

“I got new colors. Five of them,” she said, voice sing-song. “And you get to pick. I can clean last week’s up for you. Start fresh. Make it nice.”

He tilted his head faintly.

“Just… hold still. Like you always do.”

She gently took his hand and removed the glove, wiping the nail clean with a cotton pad, humming a half-forgotten lullaby under her breath.

---

"Careful, you're spilling sand on my couch, I just washed it."

"Sorry," Metamorpho muttered, drawing the sandy haze back into his shin with a subtle flick of thought. "Happens when I get nervous."

"Why are you nervous?" Eve asked, leaning forward on the edge of the armchair.

He shifted uncomfortably in his mineral frame, which had settled into something between marble and sandstone. “Because I’m talking about doing something that, by all laws of physics and good sense, we should absolutely not be doing.”

Superman stood with his arms folded and his eyes locked on Rex.

Metamorpho exhaled—producing a low hiss of vapor from one shoulder. “Okay. So. I reran the data from the collapse. Like I said—no way to open the rift again without triggering a chain reaction. But there’s a pattern in the energy dispersion, a kind of like, harmonic residue.”

He reached into a satchel and pulled out a small projector. A hologram flared to life in the space between them—an undulating 3D waveform overlaid with symbols.

“This isn’t a gateway. It’s a reflection. The dimensional pressure collapsed inward, sure, but it didn’t fully seal. There's still a scar. And scars leave marks.”

Eve leaned forward. “So we can go through one of those marks?”

“Exactly ,” Rex said. “That’s the dangerous part. We can reopen it—but only for five minutes. Any longer and the containment algorithms start to fray. We’re talking city-level consequences. Minimum.”

“Five minutes is enough,” Eve said, her voice calm but resolute.

Superman turned to her. “Eve—”

“It’s enough,” she repeated. “I just need to see him. To know he’s real. To tell him he’s not alone.”

Rex looked between them, shifting uncertainly. “You sure about this?”

“No,” Superman admitted. “But she is.”

Just then, the door to Eve’s apartment opened without warning.

“Hey, Eve, I brought you some—”

Jimmy Olsen stepped into the room, a bag of takeout in one hand, phone in the other, and froze mid-step when he saw Superman standing at the far end of the room, cape brushing the floor, framed like some Renaissance painting in the glow of the hologram.

The silence that followed could have been sliced into neat little pieces and served on a tray.

Jimmy's face fell by different degrees—confusion giving way to discomfort, then landing squarely on resigned defeat.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Didn’t realize you had company.”

Eve stood up, flustered. “Jimmy, wait—”

“No, no, it’s cool,” he said, stepping back toward the door with a tight smile. “I just thought maybe you’d want dinner. But I guess..."

“Jimmy—”

“I’ll come back at a better time,” he said, his voice quiet. 

He didn’t quite slam the door when he left, but he didn’t close it gently either.

Metamorpho awkwardly cleared his throat—an odd, gravelly rasp—and started packing away the projector.

Eve stood frozen in place for a beat, shoulders stiff.

"Sorry, that was just—"

"Jimmy Olsen," Superman said.

"You know him?"

"Of course I do," he answered. "That's my best pal."

---

For as confusing as the world was in general, Ultraman tended to find that the most confusing thing of all was figuring out what was supposed to happen at lights out.

He had been trained, conditioned, and corrected for waking hours—go there, hit that, obey them. But nighttime was... undefined. Lex gave no commands during those hours. The lights dimmed, the doors locked, the halls grew still.

And there were no instructions.

The first night it happened, Ultraman stood outside Lex’s quarters for four hours.

He didn’t knock nor did he move. Just stood with his back straight and his fists clenched at his sides, watching the sealed door like it might attack. Eventually, it slid open with a hiss, and Lex appeared in rumpled sleepwear, eyes bleary, jaw clenched.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to guard me. Get out of the way.”

Ultraman tilted his head.

Lex stepped past him, muttering curses under his breath, then turned back. “Go. Somewhere. Else.”

So he did.

He wandered the halls for a while. Tried standing at corners. Next to inactive terminals. In closets.

None of them felt right.

Eventually, hours later, he padded quietly into Eve’s quarters.

She was asleep. Or at least, she had been. Her room was dim, a gentle blue light cast from a salt lamp in the corner. Ultraman stood at the foot of her bed, staring, uncertain what to do.

Her eyes opened slowly, instinctively, like she’d been halfway expecting it.

“Ultraman?” she croaked, voice hoarse with sleep. “What’re you doing?”

Ultraman didn’t answer.

He just stood there.

Eve blinked a few times, sat up a little and yawned. “Okay… buddy, I know I said you’re always welcome, but standing silently in the dark while I’m asleep is a little serial killer-y.”

He tilted his head.

With a sigh, Eve swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for a nearby throw blanket. “C’mon.”

She padded barefoot into the adjoining room, dragging him with her by the hand. He followed without resistance, still silent, still visibly confused.

Eve led him to the couch, tossed the blanket down, then retrieved one of her fluffier pillows from the linen closet. “Here. This is your bed.”

Ultraman looked at it, then at her.

“You’re not on duty. Lex is asleep. You’re allowed to rest. Like… lay down. Close your eyes. Breathe. You know. Sleep.”

She waited.

He didn’t move.

Eve sighed and walked back to her room. “Alright. Goodnight.”

She turned off the light.

The silence held for three seconds.

Then she felt it. That eerie sixth sense that someone was watching her.

She turned her head.

Sure enough, there he was.

Staring.

“Okay,” she muttered, pulling the light back on. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.”

She marched past him, took his hand again and led him back to the couch. She made him sit. Sat next to him. Pulled the blanket over his lap.

“Okay. We’re gonna ease into this,” she said, rummaging under the coffee table for one of the old books she’d been meaning to donate. “Bedtime story. That’s how normal people fall asleep, right?”

Ultraman didn’t reply. But his head tilted toward her lap like he was listening.

She cracked open the book, squinting at the title. “Alright. The Velveteen Rabbit. That’s not a terrible place to start.”

Her voice was soft. Gentle. Not baby-talk or saccharine, rather, it came out in the way you speak to someone you want to stay a while longer.

Ultraman didn’t understand every word. But he understood the sound. He watched her lips move. Watched the way her eyes softened as she read. After a few minutes, he slowly leaned sideways until his head rested against the pillow she had brought out for him.

Eve kept reading.

He closed his eyes.

His breathing slowed.

And when she finally whispered, “The End,” she looked down to find him fast asleep—knees tucked under the blanket, fingers curled loosely around its edge.

Chapter 3: Like creator, like genetically accurate clone of the most powerful being on planet Earth

"A donut for our guest, please," Lex said with that calm, oily charm that somehow made every polite word feel like a veiled threat.

Ultraman stood silently at attention behind him, masked, clad in his pitch-dark outfit. He turned without a word and walked toward the glass-topped refreshment cart in the corner of the office. His boots didn’t quite make sound as they moved across the marble floor, but Simon Stagg still flinched at every step.

Lex swirled the amber liquor in his glass and gave Stagg an indulgent smile.

“So. Let’s revisit the offer.”

Stagg shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His silvery hair was slicked back too neatly, his cravat just slightly askew.

“I’m not selling you Rex,” Stagg snapped. “Not for that price. I don’t care what your little science project does.”

Lex tilted his head, unbothered. “He’s not your son-in-law, Simon. You made that abundantly clear the moment you volunteered him for the experiment.”

“It was a test run! And he survived. Improved, even.”

“And yet he remains in your basement lab, locked behind a three-ton lead door like a shameful pet.”

Stagg’s eyes flicked toward the corner where Ultraman was selecting a powdered donut. "You know how dangerous he is... how dangerous he can be."

"Of course I do. That's why I want him."

Ultraman returned silently and stood beside the two men once more, holding the donut lightly between two fingers.

Lex lifted a hand and made a subtle gesture—wait.

Ultraman stopped mid-motion.

“Simon,” Lex said, gently setting his drink down with a soft, “there’s a principle you don’t seem to grasp. You keep saying I'm undervaluing your asset.”

Stagg bristled. “Because you are. Metamorpho is one of a kind. The government’s already been sniffing around—”

Lex leaned forward. “But money, Simon… money only matters when you have the power to use it.”

He turned his head slightly.

“Ultraman.”

Without hesitation, Ultraman slowly clenched his hand around the donut.

The powdered treat compressed and crumbled instantly into a cloud of dust, then further—finer, impossibly so—until even the dust began to warp and flake away under the pressure of his grip. A faint whump of displaced air shimmered outward. What had once been a soft, sugary snack ceased to exist in any meaningful way.

Stagg blinked. His lips parted, but no words came.

Ultraman remained still, his emptied fist lowered to his side. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he brought his other hand forward and placed it on Stagg’s shoulder.

It was not a painful gesture nor was it violent, but it was final enough to leave Stagg shuddering.

Lex watched, the corner of his mouth curling faintly upward. “Do you feel that?”

Stagg gave a stiff, involuntary nod. His throat bobbed.

“Good,” Lex said. “Because that’s not intimidation, Simon. That’s context. That’s value. That’s why the price I offered is more than fair.”

Ultraman leaned down slightly. Just enough that the sound of his slow, mechanical breath filled the space between them.

Stagg swallowed again, face pale and slick with sweat.

“…Fine,” he rasped.

Lex’s smile sharpened.

“I’ll have my people send over the paperwork,” he said, lifting his drink again.

Ultraman lifted his hand from Stagg’s shoulder and stepped back into shadow, silent once more.

Stagg didn’t look at the door on his way out.

Lex took a long sip from his glass, savoring it, then set it down with a thoughtful hum.

“I’ll admit,” he said at last, eyes tracking Ultraman, “you’re improving.”

The mask made him unreadable, but Lex had long ago conceded that he did not need to see his expression.

“You waited, you delivered. You didn’t do anything out of turn, and—” Lex’s lips quirked with dry amusement, “—you didn’t shatter his shoulder, even when you easily could have. That shows… discretion.”

He stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “You understood the mood of the room and the choreography of the moment. That’s not something I ever explicitly taught you. Which means either you’re learning… or you’re starting to think.”

There was a long silence.

Then Lex waved a dismissive hand. “Go. Make yourself useful somewhere else. I have a phone call to make.”

Ultraman left the room without a word and walked in silence.

Down the corridor, past the sealed conference wing, past the digital security panels and glowing nodes embedded in the floor. The overhead lights flickered faintly in the lenses carved into his mask.

He didn’t know what the feeling was at first. It sat in his chest like something foreign, not heavy, but bright. It had flared briefly when Lex praised him—genuinely praised him, not just barked orders—and again when he realized he'd chosen not to break Stagg’s shoulder. Not because he couldn’t, but because something in him had said: this is better.

Pride.

It was the word that came closest.

“Hey,” a voice said gently behind him.

He turned.

Eve Teschmacher stood leaning in the open doorway to the west wing, half-lit by the overhead strip lights. She was dressed down—loose jeans, oversized T-shirt, no lipstick, bare feet on the cold floor. Her hair was messy in a way she didn’t seem to care about.

“You’re hard to find lately,” she said with her arms crossed. “Too cool to hang out with me now, huh?”

Ultraman looked away.

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Lex been keeping you busy?”

He said nothing.

“I know he doesn’t like it when we talk,” Eve added. “I’m not stupid. But it’s not like I’m teaching you how to overthrow him or anything. Just... y’know. Normal stuff. Like nail polish and cartoons.” She gave him a small smile. “Remember cartoons?”

His gaze drifted toward her, just barely.

“C’mon,” she said, voice dropping to something soft and warm. “Ten minutes. We don’t even have to talk. I’ve got new tea. And I found a really stupid video of a raccoon stealing a slice of pizza and running into traffic.”

Lex’s voice echoed faintly in his memory: Make yourself useful.

But this quiet offer and moment of comfort from a strange, stubborn woman who never treated him like a weapon—it tugged at that small, sharp thing still glowing in his chest.

Still, he stood firm.

Eve sighed.

“Okay,” she said, backing away with both hands raised in surrender. “Your call. But don't be a stranger, alright?”

He didn’t answer.

She gave him a small wave anyway, then turned and disappeared into her room, the door closing softly behind her.

Ultraman stared at the closed door for a long moment.

Then he walked on.

---

Lex opened the fridge with a yawn, blinking the dry sting out of his eyes. It was late and the dim kitchen lights of the penthouse cast everything in a soft gold that felt more like memory than illumination.

He muttered to himself as he retrieved the milk, the bottle clinking faintly against the edge of the shelf. “This is beneath me,” he muttered, voice low and wry. “Cereal at 3AM. I could order foie gras from Switzerland with a single call, and I’m reaching for sugar and corn dust like a hungover college freshman.”

He shut the fridge with a nudge of his hip, reached for the pantry, and pulled down a faded box of cereal from the higher shelf. It was a garish knockoff brand—Captain Crunchlight—a relic from a sponsorship deal that had long since soured. He poured it into the bowl with the grace of a man already regretting his choices.

“Need a spike of glucose,” he rationalized aloud, talking to the quiet. “Simple chemistry. Brain fog, long day, cellular repair at night—it’s practically medicinal.”

He opened the milk and began to pour, then froze.

A presence.

Too close and much too quiet.

He turned and nearly dropped the bowl.

Ultraman was there, standing just inside the doorway to the kitchen, perfectly still. The light caught on his mask, painting his silhouette in cold steel and a faint purple reflection.

“Jesus,” Lex breathed, setting the bowl down hard enough to splash milk onto the counter.

Ultraman didn’t respond.

Lex pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, then waved a hand toward the stool at the kitchen island.

“Sit. Take off the mask.”

There was a brief pause, barely perceptible and then Ultraman obeyed. He stepped forward and removed the mask with practiced ease, setting it beside him on the counter.

Lex poured the rest of the milk into his bowl and grabbed a spoon. He took a bite—crunchy, cloyingly sweet—and grimaced. “God. Awful.”

Ultraman tilted his head.

Lex sat across from him, chewing slowly, staring with narrowed eyes.

“You don’t usually wander up here unless summoned,” he said.

Ultraman said nothing.

Lex gestured vaguely with his spoon. “Did Eve send you? I know she’s been having you play hide-and-seek lately, under the guise of it being some sort of training.”

Still nothing.

Lex sighed again, deeper. “You’re thinking too much. I can see it. That little crinkle between your brows. That heaviness in your shoulders. You’re developing mannerisms, Ultraman. That’s not part of the design.”

Ultraman looked down at the counter.

Lex took another bite, toning down the drama. He chewed, then said, “But… I suppose it’s not entirely bad. You handled Stagg like a professional today. Perfect timing, perfect pressure. I almost believed you enjoyed that performance.”

A beat.

“Did you?”

Only a slow breath came from Ultraman’s parted lips.

Lex watched him carefully.

“You’re not ready to answer that. Fine. You don’t need to.”

He reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a folded napkin, wiping the milk he’d spilled earlier with an absentminded motion.

“You want praise and approval. That’s normal. Even rats seek out the lever that gives them food.”

Another bite.

“You’ve been responding to Eve differently lately. Less robotic. More human. I know because she’s been smug about it. Keeps looking at me like I’m the one who’s missing something.”

He set his spoon down gently.

“I want to make something clear.”

Ultraman looked up.

Lex met his gaze, unblinking.

“She can distract you all she wants. Paint your nails, play cartoons, tell bedtime stories. But I made you. And I am the only one who sees what you truly are.”

The surgical words hung in the air.

Ultraman didn’t flinch.

Lex leaned back in his chair. “You may enjoy the illusion of kindness. But remember—Eve’s kindness is her flaw. Mine is your origin.”

For a long moment, the kitchen was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

"Too much sugar," Lex said, pushing the bowl away. He stood and gestured at Ultraman. "Follow me."

Lex led Ultraman down the private stairwell, past levels that even the staff didn’t know existed. The security measures were old—mechanical in places, analog in others, as if designed to function even during an EMP. He keyed in a long-forgotten code at the final door and waited as it hissed open with a reluctant groan.

The room beyond was dimly lit, walls covered in lead-lined plating, noise-dampening foam, and something else—paranoia, perhaps.

“Come,” Lex said.

Ultraman stepped into the chamber.

At first glance, it looked like a museum. Or a shrine.

The walls were covered in Superman.

Photos. Newspaper clippings. Holographic stills from distant disasters. A tattered piece of red cape in a shadowbox. A bust, sculpted in Grecian marble. A rotating model of Krypton, encased in glass. Dozens of items, each curated, each preserved with a maddening level of care.

And dominating the far wall: a blown-up photograph of Superman hovering in the sky, arms folded, cape billowing—a god watching a fragile world.

Lex came to a stop in the center of the room, staring up at the image.

“Look at it,” he murmured, voice tight. “Just look at it.”

Ultraman silently obeyed.

Lex’s lip curled. “He isn’t a man. He’s never been a man. He’s an interruption. A break in the system. He makes every human achievement feel small just by standing there.”

He moved slowly, almost reverently, past the memorabilia.

“I built companies. I created industries. I outmaneuvered governments. And for a time, that meant something. Until he fell out of the sky. With his stupidly perfect smile and his stupidly perfect jaw and his perfect power.”

He turned to Ultraman, eyes gleaming. “He didn't earn it. He just was and everyone bent the knee.”

Ultraman’s gaze flicked toward a small item near the corner. A child’s drawing, preserved in plastic. It showed a stick-figure Superman above a crayon Earth, with the words Thank You Super Man!! scrawled beneath in bright yellow ink.

Lex noticed. “That,” he said sharply, “was sent to me. Me. After I so generously donated a million dollars to help with the flood that afflicted Metropolis. But when Superman showed up two months later, the little brat sent a new drawing. Same crayons. But this time, addressed to him.”

Lex laughed bitterly. “One press of his boots on this planet and every mind forgets what men can do. What I can do.”

He turned away. “This room is an archive. A study in weakness."

He walked to the giant photo on the wall the one of Superman up in the sky and stared at it, trembling slightly. Then turned back to Ultraman.

“But it cannot go on. It won’t. A creature like that cannot exist untested. Not when the greatest mind on Earth is here to oppose it. Not when I’ve already made something better.”

Ultraman said nothing. But his eyes drifted again to the photo.

The face.

That same face.

His face.

His fist twitched.

Then, before he could think, before he could stop it—he punched.

The photo shattered. The wall behind it cracked, crumbling into a small crater under the force of the blow. Dust spilled outward. Shards of frame and plaster fell like snow.

Lex turned, startled and then grinned.

“That’s it. That’s the instinct. That’s what makes you mine.”

He picked up the Superman bust—gorgeous and pristine—smashing it against the marble edge of the desk.

Stone fragments rained down as he laughed.

“This! This is truth! No more silence, no more polite containment—tear it down!”

Ultraman’s other fist lashed out, knocking over a display case. The tattered cape crumpled under a hail of broken glass. A hologram projector sparked and burst in the corner as he ripped a photograph from the wall and crumpled it into ash.

Lex joined him, taking the rotating Krypton model and hurling it against the far end of the room. It shattered with a beautiful, starburst crunch. 

The lights flickered and together, they destroyed.

Lex kicked over a pedestal. Ultraman grabbed a stack of Superman action figures and crushed them into one twisted plastic lump. A signed Daily Planet front page was torn in half like it meant nothing.

“No more false gods!”

Another picture.

“No more red capes!”

Another display case, shattered under Ultraman’s boot.

“No more him!”

Ultraman paused and stared at the wreckage—glass and dust and scorched paper. The shrine was gone.

And in its place, only silence remained.

Lex was breathing hard, leaning on the edge of the table, sweat on his brow, eyes wild and bright.

He looked at Ultraman—his creation and his answer.

And then he smiled.

“Now,” he said, softly, almost tenderly, “now we start building the world as it should be.”

Ultraman didn’t answer.

Chapter 4: WC

"Why is your bathroom so big?"

"Still trying to figure that one out myself," Metamorpho sheepishly admitted. "I just don't want to look weird for asking."

Eve stepped further inside, eyes wide. The marble tile gleamed under the sterile lights, with grand arched ceilings overhead and walls lined with polished metal fixtures that looked like they'd been airlifted from a luxury hotel.

But it wasn’t the ridiculous number of sinks or the automatic towel dispensers that caught her eye.

It was the machine sitting in the middle of the room.

Where a row of stalls might have been, instead stood a crude assembly of curved panels, wires, and hexagonal emitter nodes, all orbiting a humming core that shimmered faintly blue. It may not have looked finished, but it certainly looked alive.

“Mister Terrific’s prototype,” Metamorpho said, stepping around it and thumbing through a control pad strapped to his forearm. “He started building it about two weeks ago, but left it in beta for some reason. I did some patchwork and tied the signal resonance to the rift scars we tracked last week.”

“You finished what he started in a bathroom?” Eve asked.

Metamorpho shrugged. “The insulation in here is really good and we'll definitely have plenty of time to do this without anyone knowing."

Superman approached the portal, his eyes scanning the vibrating heart of the machine. The faint hum it pulsated had grown sharper, like a tuning fork resonating in his bones.

He stopped just short of the entry ring.

“Maybe I should go in alone.”

Eve blinked. “What?”

Superman turned to her. “If there’s something on the other side… if he’s on the other side, it might not be safe.”

“I'm the one who put us up to this in the first place,” she argued. “And besides, I know how to talk to him. And I think—I know—he’ll need to see a familiar face more than... well, his own face.”

Metamorpho stepped back from the console. “Uh, guys? I have a charge that's barely holding. You should have about ten minutes before this thing short-circuits and envelops itself.”

Superman exhaled. “Ten minutes.”

Metamorpho nodded and stepped toward the wall, positioning himself between the entrance and the machinery. “I’ll keep watch. If any of the others show up, I’ll do whatever I can to stall them."

Eve stepped beside Superman, reaching for his hand instinctively.

"You’re sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

He took it.

The portal flared, starting soft and then growing louder and more urgent. The air smelled like ozone and copper. The space between the emitter nodes bent like heat off a sidewalk.

“Alright,” Rex said, casting a brief glance at the readout. “Sending pulse.”

The shimmer in the core turned violet.

“Opening in three…”

Superman gripped Eve’s hand a little tighter.

“…Two…”

She didn’t blink.

“…One.”

The air folded like a page turning. And the two of them stepped forward into it and were gone.

Metamorpho stared at the empty ring for a second and then at the urinals for no particular reason. He turned back to the control panel.

9:59… 9:58… 9:57…

---

Eve’s scream tore through the kaleidoscopic air as gravity twisted around her—if it was gravity at all.

Superman’s arms closed around her just in time.

They dropped fast. The sky—a vast, undulating sea of roiling indigo clouds—rippled beneath them, while overhead, the ocean arched overhead like a storm held upside down. Massive purple blocks floated in the space between, tumbling like forgotten dice across a board that had no edge.

Bracing for impact, Superman twisted midair, absorbing the brunt as they crashed onto one of the floating platforms. The surface was rough and matte, each side rendered precisely the same length. Their landing left a crater of fractured gridlines and static flickers.

“Unh,” Superman grunted, lying on his back for a beat as the block slowly drifted sideways beneath them. Eve was still in his arms, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Did we just fall up?” she managed.

“Not even sure we landed yet,” he muttered, sitting up.

Eve rolled off him and staggered to her feet. Around them, hundreds of similar platforms floated across the inverted horizon. Some were clustered together like flocks of birds. Others drifted solo, spinning lazily in the endless twilight.

Beneath them, above them, between them, the rules of up and down no longer mattered.

---

knock knock

Metamorpho startled from the portal and looked nervously toward the locked bathroom door.

“Uh, occupied!” Metamorpho called, fingers dancing nervously over the controls. The countdown was at 7:38, humming softly beneath the surface noise of the portal.

There was a pause. Then Guy Gardner’s voice cut through the door like a buzzsaw. “This entire massive bathroom that half our budget goes to is occupied?”

Metamorpho winced. “Yeah, uh—sorry, man. I got Joey with me.”

Another beat of silence.

“Joey?”

“Yeah you know, Joey!” Metamorpho said quickly, with forced cheer. “Y’know. Baby. Diaper situation. It's a real war zone in here and I really don't think you wanna come in right now.”

There was a long, drawn-out sigh on the other side.

“You brought a baby to the Hall of Justice?”

“Uh, the uhm, daycare was closed and Terrific said it was fine and Joey’s quiet as long as I bring the peanut butter bunny snacks. Which I did.”

The silence that followed could’ve frozen lava.

“Rex.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s not okay.”

“I know.”

“You’re not supposed to bring your kid to work.”

“I know. But I figured, emergency diaper blowout, take him to the big bathroom where there’s space, boom, handled. I’m doing my best, alright?”

On the other side of the door, Guy made a noise somewhere between a groan and an aneurysm. “Whatever. Just—call me when it smells like less of a nuclear spill in there. I swear, if I miss my morning dump because of this—”

---

"C'mon, jump," Superman said, holding his hand out to Eve. 

She did so, although, was mostly carried by Superman considering the fact that she had heels on.

A flash of movement caught her eye when Superman twisted in the air to land them on a jagged platform both sideways and upside down at the same time.

“There!” she pointed.

Across the void, maybe four blocks over, a shape moved, standing hunched at the edge of a floating square. Slouched. Still. And alone.

"It’s him.”

Superman stood, cape snapping faintly behind him despite the absence of wind and looked to where she had pointed. He bent his knees and leapt—not so much a flight as a snap through broken space. The air wobbled around him, then popped like bubble wrap as he vanished into the next grid.

Another block. Another jump. They were getting closer—three lengths and then two.

---

4:33... 4:32...

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The pounding was rapid and aggressive, like someone was trying to puncture the door.

Metamorpho jumped and nearly dropped his control pad.

“Occupied!” he called out again, voice a full octave higher than usual.

“Rex, I swear on every feather I have left—if you and your rocky ass are still hogging this bathroom—"

“Hawkgirl!” Metamorpho yelped. “Hey! Haha! Fancy hearing from you!”

“I have been flying patrol for eleven hours, I am full of three Red Bulls and a bucket of popcorn. This is not not a drill.”

“I’m... sanitizing," he blurted. "Full lockdown. Mister Terrific found a Class Four fungal anomaly in the pipe system last night.”

“What kind of fungus?”

“Uh…” Rex glanced frantically around the glowing machine behind him. “Radioluminescent mold. It glows and eats grout! Very invasive. Spore situation. We’ve got full quarantine protocols active right now. Biohazard suits and everything.”

“You don’t even wear anything but pants.”

“I am the suit!” Metamorpho said, gesturing vaguely to his own body. “This is a living hazmat system. It’s a whole thing.”

A long pause.

Then: “Two minutes and then I want in.”

“Understood!” Rex called out cheerfully, already turning back to the countdown.

3:46… 3:45…

He wiped a mineralized hand across his brow—leaving behind a small dust trail and then glanced back at the flickering ring.

“C'mon guys, hurry up.”

---

Superman slowed as they landed on the final block. Only a few meters separated them from the slouched figure at the edge of the grid, outlined faintly against the roiling violet sky.

He turned to Eve, voice low. “How do you want to do this?”

Eve’s breath trembled, but her hands were steady. “You hang back.”

Superman’s brow furrowed. “Eve—”

“I mean it.” She stepped forward, heels clicking against the strange textured stone beneath them. “He knows me. Or… he did. I have to try. Alone.”

He searched her face one last time—for hesitation or fear, but found only certainty.

Then he nodded. “I’ll be right here.”

She gave him a faint smile. “Thank you.”

She walked toward the figure slowly, like approaching a sleeping animal you loved but weren’t sure wouldn’t bite.

As she drew near, the details came into focus. His frame was hunched and stiff—arms dangling at his sides, head bowed. His skin was pale, almost translucent in places, and beneath it, a faint purple glow pulsed, twisting in rhythm with an unfamiliar breath. His hair was longer than she remembered, brushing his shoulders in uneven tufts, and stubble, rough and patchy, had begun to form along his jawline and across his cheeks.

It was however, his eyes which hit her hardest. They stared through her, as if she were a mirage conjured from a place he no longer trusted.

Still, she smiled.

“Hey,” Eve said gently, her voice threading the space between them like silk. “You look like hell.”

No answer.

She took another step forward. “Not that I’m judging. I’ve had some bad hair days myself. Remember that time Lex took us out in the helicopter and opened the door three thousand feet up?”

Nothing.

“Remember the time we painted all your gloves to look like oven mitts? You looked like a malfunctioning Roomba."

Still nothing.

She pressed a hand to her chest and extended the other, palm flat, fingers curled in just the right pattern.

“Handshake?”

No motion.

She held the pose and waited, her hand trembling.

He didn’t even blink.

Her hand fell.

Eve’s shoulders shook as the air around them thickened. “You’re still in there,” she whispered. “I know you are.”

Her tears came unbidden. She tried to hold them in, but it all cracked at once, everything proving to be too much.

“I miss you,” she gasped. “I miss you so much, and I’m so sorry about everything. About Lex. About how we left things. About not trying harder when you needed me to. I just—” She took one more step, and without asking, pressed her face into his chest. “I want it to go back. Please. I want it to go back to the way we used to be.”

Her sobs echoed faintly across the platform.

For a long, harrowing moment, he didn’t move.

Then—

He raised a slow hand.

Eve felt the movement and drew back just enough to see.

A memory.

She sniffled, blinking through the blur, and lifted her own hand to match his.

Their palms met well enough. Her smaller fingers curled into his larger ones.

He looked at her.

Eve smiled through the tears.

“Hi,” she whispered. “There you are.”

Eve’s breath hitched as the contact held. His hand was warm, despite the strange glow beneath the skin. She squeezed it tighter, just to remind herself that he was neither a dream nor a ghost.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, voice trembling with joy. “You’re here, you’re really here. God, we have so much catching up to do.”

His gaze flicked faintly to her lips as she spoke, the words seeming to pass almost into understanding. His brow furrowed like someone who had woken mid-dream and was trying to recall where they were.

She reached up to brush some of his hair from his face. “Don’t freak out, okay? Just breathe. I didn’t come here alone.”

He blinked.

Eve turned, beckoning gently. “It’s alright. He’s just here to help.”

From behind one of the block’s jagged ridges, Superman stepped forward with an open expression filled with relief.

He lifted a hand, halfway into a wave. “He—"

A shriek like breaking metal cracked across the block as he launched forward, his hand ripping from Eve’s grip with terrifying force. The moment twisted in on itself, joy curdling into panic as he tackled Superman in a blur.

“No!” Eve screamed, stumbling back.

They collided, the sound like two freight trains crashing into one another in zero gravity. Superman grunted as they tumbled, smashing through one grid, then another, their bodies spinning violently through warped gravity and fractal space. Blocks cracked and shards of matter scattered like glass.

Ultraman snarled and drove Superman down, landing punch after punch even as Superman blocked and braced, turning with the momentum and throwing him across a floating slab.

“He’s confused!” Eve cried out, running to the edge. “He doesn’t know—it’s not his fault!”

Superman didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Ultraman was on him again, a blur of fury and primal fear.

Ultraman’s eyes flared and his heat vision erupted—wild, uncontrolled, grazing Superman’s cheek and slicing through three drifting cubes beyond, which exploded like paper in a furnace.

Superman ducked, twisted under the next blast, and lifted his double in a crushing hold, spinning them both down toward the glowing breach—the only constant in an impossible sky.

---

"Rex," Maxwell Lord said while knocking on the door. "Rex."

"See?" Guy pointed out. "He’s totally hogging the bathroom."

"Rex," Maxwell repeated, knocking with measured patience. "Rex. I know you're in there."

Behind him, Guy Gardner paced like a caffeinated tiger. “This is ridiculous. How long does it take to change a diaper or clean fungus or whatever he's doing in there?”

Hawkgirl crossed her arms. “Why don't we just tear the door off?"

Maxwell exhaled slowly and turned to them. “Will you both cool it with the bathroom melodrama? It’s not the end of the world.”

“For you!” Guy snapped. “You have a private bathroom.”

Maxwell ignored him and faced the door again. “Rex, buddy. Look, I know I didn’t walk you through every fine point of the employee manual—but basic HR rule of thumb? Don’t monopolize the restroom.”

No reply came.

Maxwell pulled a lanyard from his jacket pocket and held up the brass master key.

Guy’s eyes zeroed in on it like a bloodhound. “Gimme that.”

“What? No—Guy—”

But Guy snatched the key with all the decorum of a starving man at a buffet and jammed it into the lock.

“Finally!” he barked. “Move, lava-lungs, I’m about to—”

Click.

The door swung open and two blurred figures came barreling out like missiles from a railgun.

“WHOA!”

Guy screeched as Superman and Ultraman, tangled in a violent knot of limbs and raw momentum, smashed into him like a brick wall. The three of them crashed to the floor in a heap, sliding halfway across the hallway in a trail of scuffed tiles.

Ultraman roared incoherently and slammed a fist into Superman’s face before grabbing hold of his neck.

Superman’s boots scraped uselessly against the polished floor, his back arched, fingers clawing at the wrists locked like iron bars around his throat.

Hawkgirl surged forward, mace raised high. “Let. Him. Go!”

She swung, but Ultraman caught the weapon mid-arc, wrenched it free, and drove his forehead into her nose with a brutal crack. She staggered back and then crashed into the wall, unconscious.

Guy Gardner didn’t hesitate once he was back to his feet. “That’s it. Gloves are off.”

He thrust his power ring forward with a growl, and an enormous green construct somewhere between a freight train and a boxing glove, slammed into Ultraman, hurling him across the corridor like a cannonball.

Superman gasped, coughing hard and staggered to his knees.

Ultraman rolled immediately and charged back. Guy did his best to brace, but was grabbed midair by the throat, the ring on his finger sputtering as Ultraman squeezed.

“Y’think you’re clever—” Guy croaked.

Ultraman snarled and drove him headfirst into the floor. The tiles exploded. The light above them popped.

Guy Gardner did not get back up.

Only Superman remained, still trying to recover on the ground.

Ultraman loomed over him only briefly before reaching down with one hand and grabbing Superman by the collar to slam him against the wall hard enough to spiderweb the plaster.

He wrapped both hands around Superman’s neck once more and squeezed.

Tighter.

And tighter.

Superman’s eyes fluttered. He kicked, tried to break the grip, but Ultraman proved stronger in the moment.

Air turned to ice in his lungs.

His fingers rose weakly.

And then his voice rang out in a wheeze:

“Eve…? Where’s… Eve?”

---

Eve Teschmacher had always liked to imagine how she might die. An accident of some sort? Perhaps. Lex finally snapping at the worst possible time? Possibly. Or maybe by some strange joke on the part of God, she would live to the age of ninety.

Getting trapped in a different dimension and likely killed by one of its many extravagencies was not on the list of things she would have thought of.

She made a desperate run for the portal, heels skidding against the unstable stone as the fragmented platform tilted beneath her.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon... hold the gate."

The portal was slipping. The floating slab it was anchored to had cracked, a corner sheared off by the shockwave of Ultraman’s attack. It hovered a few meters away, bobbing like a lifeboat on a stormy sea of impossible geometry.

She ran faster, but amidst her panic, her foot caught on the edge of a rising cube causing her to stumble, her arms to pinwheel and her to ultimately fall.

She hit the platform hard, palms scraping against the strange matte stone. The wind was knocked out of her, her breath huffing in a panicked sob as the portal inched farther away, like a cruel mirage dissolving at the end of a dream.

She helplessly watched it go.

“No…” she whispered, reaching out with trembling fingers. “Don’t leave me here…”

She blinked once and then was lifted in a blur, the ground vanishing beneath her as her body jerked into motion.

Ultraman was flying.

Or falling upward. Or sideways. It didn’t matter—he was taking her to the portal, streaking through fractured air with a speed that defied reason, space curving and reshaping around them like reality was making room.

---

"Don't let it close!"

"I'm trying!" Metamorpho yelled back, flipping every override he could find. The interface barked out error tones. A breaker blew behind the wall with a deafening pop.

The core flickered and went dark.

Silence.

The room stood still.

The ring at the center of the lavatory was empty. No more shimmering or humming.

Just static hanging in the air, the taste of copper, the sound of a single sink dripping.

Superman sagged against the wall, coughing once with his eyes wide.

Metamorpho stumbled back from the panel, ash streaked across his rocky shoulders.

“I—I couldn’t hold it,” he said, stunned. “It caved in. I’m sorry—I—I—”

He was cut off as the floor shook.

A pulse of violet energy burst through the center of the ring like a thunderclap of light. The core re-ignited, blazing like a dying star flaring to life one final time. The emitters screamed in protest, wires snapping, sparks shooting wildly and then the portal exploded open with a shriek of warped reality.

BOOM.

Ultraman shot through it in a streak of violet, Eve clutched tight against his chest like a lifeline. The force of their entry shattered what remained of the tile floor, spraying debris as they skidded across the room in a tangled heap.

Metamorpho flung himself out of the way.

The roomba that happened to be passing by wasn’t so lucky.

When the dust settled Ultraman lay unconscious. His body twitched faintly.

Eve coughed, dazed, eyes red with tears, but alive. Her blouse was torn, her heels gone. She crawled from beneath Ultraman, gasping.

Superman was there in a second, kneeling beside her. “Eve—!”

“We made it. We made it back.”

Metamorpho slumped to the wall, staring at the smoldering portal as it fizzled and finally died, the machinery collapsing in on itself.

Hawkgirl stirred, nose bruised, one wing bent at an odd angle. “That guy… sucks.”

Maxwell Lord stepped back into the room to straighten his tie.

"I assume this is a good time to to put into place a policy on interdimensional travel.”

Chapter 5: Newton's Third Law of Motion

Ultraman stood in the dim hallway, half-concealed behind a recessed panel in the wall where Lex liked to hang emergency equipment he never expected to use. Through the narrow window, he could see everything.

Lex was pacing like a caged animal, kicking the occasional trash can across the floor of his office, while still flanked by security monitors and data projections still flashing red with the remnants of the breach into his pocket dimension. His voice punched through the glass in muffled bursts.

“Pick that up!” Lex bellowed. 

A group of technicians flinched and scrambled to obey, ducking down to retrieve the fallen stationary amidst the broken glass on the ground.

Ultraman’s eyes drifted to the others in the room—junior researchers, senior advisors, even the poor intern he sometimes saw in the break room. All ranging from obsolete silence to bumbling and senseless explanations.

And Eve.

She was mid-selfie, hardly paying Lex any mind.

"Eve! Get out of here you idiot!"

Until he forced her to. Ultraman watched impassively as she stumbled back a few steps, unused to the full brunt of his rage. She got the message entirely when he threw a fallen pencil at her as if to chase a dog away.

"Go! Move!"

With her shoulders tightened and her head bowed, she walked quickly out of the office. As she turned the corner, her face was a blur of motion. She was crying.

Ultraman’s fingers twitched at his sides, glad to have nothing to hold onto.

He followed at a distance, footsteps soundless on the cold floor. He made no attempt to hide but didn’t announce himself either. 

Eve didn’t look back once. She moved quickly, wiping at her face with the edge of her sleeve, heading down a side corridor and into a server room.

He waited until she was gone from view, then turned the corner and not wanting to enter, sat on the nearest chair and stared out the side of the tower for no particular reason.

"... oh, I'm so done Jimmy.” Her voice cracked a little. “I have everything. You need to ruin Lex forever.”

A pause. 

“Oh I have everything here... how dare he...”

Ultraman shifted, absorbing her muttered words and tilting his head slightly in the direction of the door. He recognized the urgency and steel beneath her voice, similiar to any of the times she’d helped him sneak out of the lab.

His fingers twitched again.

He didn’t fully understand treason, not in the way Lex did. But he understood threats. Lex had trained that into him, wordlessly. He recognized a boundary being crossed.

So he turned and went to get him.

Lex Luthor was hunched over a row of hard-light schematics in a secondary operations room, one hand braced on the console, the other clenched around a stylus he wasn’t using. He was muttering plenty under his breath—fragments of orders mixed with calculations and blame.

Ultraman appeared without a word, stepping into the glow of the screen.

Lex didn’t look up. “What?”

Ultraman didn’t answer. He simply reached forward and persistently tugged on Lex’s sleeve. Like a child who wanted something.

Lex snapped his head around, eyes blazing. “What now? Is this about your hair again?”

Ultraman said nothing, but did give another tug.

“God almighty,” Lex growled, tearing himself away from the console. “What is it, one of the interns crying again because I yelled?”

Ultraman turned and walked slowly, giving the impression that there was real purpose beneath his steps.

Lex hesitated, irritation flared alongside his curiosity. Ultraman almost never initiated anything unless directly prompted. 

He followed.

They reached the door to the server room just as Eve’s voice carried again.

"If I send you this Jimmy... you have to promise we get to hang this weekend... just the two of us."

Lex’s eyes narrowed as they stood outside and listened.

"Yeah? Okay, yay! ... all weekend."

Lex and Ultraman shared a glance.

"Oh my god Jimmy! I'm sorry to be such a major imposition on your life!"

Lex’s mouth twitched. His jaw tightened. He looked at Ultraman, teeth bared, and mouthed:

“That bitch.”

"... I can tell you don’t really think so—"

His hand struck the door near the hinge with a flat crack, and the door swung open, revealing Eve mid-sentence, wide-eyed and caught.

Her phone clattered to the ground just as she pressed send and just as she screamed.

Lex reached into the room and dragged her out by the legs. Her hands scraped against the floor as she kicked, twisted, and clawed in a vain attempt at escape.

“No no no no no no no!” she shrieked. 

He didn’t let go, lifting her to her feet and passing her into Ultraman’s waiting grip.

“Hold her,” Lex said coldly.

Eve tried to turn her head away, but Lex stepped up and then spat right into her face.

A wet smack, thick with venom. She flinched as it hit her cheek and nose, and for a moment her body went rigid with shock.

Lex leaned in, breathing hard.

“After everything I gave you,” he hissed, “you think you get to stab me in the back? Did you think I wouldn’t know?"

Her eyes were burning out of fear and humiliation.

“Bring her,” Lex snapped, turning on his heel.

Ultraman followed without a word, Eve dangling half off the ground, legs stumbling to keep up.

They moved quickly through the underbelly of LutherCorp from where they had come and back into Lex’s sanctuary, the nerve center of his empire. A wall of glass overlooked Metropolis, but the real view was inward, to the sleek containment vault at the center of the room.

In its center: the portal.

Lex typed a code into the console beside it, and the ring came alive, light spiraling outward like the iris of an awakening eye. It hummed with power.

Eve struggled again. “Lex, please—Lex!"

“Don't worry, I'm sure the Raptors will pick out a nice cell for you."

"You don’t have to—"

You're right,” Lex said without looking at her. “I don’t have to.” Then he turned to Ultraman. “Push her through.”

Ultraman looked at Eve.

She met the lenses of his mask desperately. “Please. Please, sweetheart, don’t—don’t let him do th—”

He shoved her forward and she stumbled through the portal with a flash of light and a cry that cut off mid-breath.

---

Everything was confusing again, just as it had been during his birth.

Hot. Cold. Tight. Bright.

He couldn’t move.

His fingers twitched, but they didn’t know why. His chest rose and fell—too fast, too heavy. There was something over him. Around him. Holding him down.

A sound. Beeping. Sharp and slow. Beep… beep…

He blinked.

Once.

The light above him was too white. Too still. It didn’t move when he growled at it.

His mouth opened, but no sound came. Not one that made sense. Just air and teeth and noise that stayed trapped behind his tongue. His jaw worked. Nothing came out. Not a name. Not a word.

Just a tremble in his throat like something broken trying to start.

He turned his head, or rather, tried to. It didn’t go far. Metal caught his neck. His arms. His legs.

Trapped.

A low sound built in his chest.

The walls glowed.

Smooth, blue crystals, standing tall like ice. Everything white and blue and wrong.

He struggled—just once and the straps pulled back.

No. No no no no no no no no no—

His body went tight and his legs kicked. One shoulder snapped hard against the slab.

The lights didn’t flinch.

Neither did the room.

He was trapped.

No Lex. No Eve.

He didn’t know where they were. He didn’t know who they were. But he felt something—

He missed them.

Or one of them.

Or the voice. The warm one. The hands that didn’t burn.

His chest heaved and a low, wordless, barely human moan slipped out.

He didn’t want the lights.

He didn’t want to remember anything.

But the memories came anyway in a series of flashes which threatened to leave him dazed.

A room with glass walls. The hum of machines. Her warm voice. Her hand holding his. 

Then: rage. A scream. Her body twisting in his grip. Her pained eyes.

Then: a punch. Another man. Cape. Fists. Heat. Pain. Anger. Sound.

The sound of her voice again.

He thrashed again and the chair groaned.

Footsteps.

He froze.

Chest rising and then falling, his shoulders twitching against the straps.

A door hissed, but he could not bring himself to look.

Something moved beside him and suddenly all reservations had left him.

He snapped his head toward it—straining against the hold—eyes wild and teeth bared.

“Hey.”

The growl in his throat faltered.

The straps still held and the room still glowed. His breath still came ragged, but his eyes, wide and wild, blinked once. Then again. The haze in them didn’t clear, but it wavered.

“Easy, big guy,” Eve said softly, her hands raised in peace. Her voice was like warm water on frozen skin and more than familiar enough to be disarming. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”

He tilted his head, one side twitching against the strap.

“You’re not in danger,” she continued gently. “You’re just tied down because you had kind of a meltdown. Nearly crushed a Green Lantern.”

No response.

Eve took another step closer, brushing her fingers nervously down the side of her pants. “They just want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Or anyone else. But you're safe now. With me.”

She stood beside the chair. His eyes followed her like a cat tracking motion.

Eve exhaled and gave him a small, crooked smile. “You still like sandwiches with the crust cut off?”

His brow twitched subtly. 

"Peanut butter, banana and bacon right?” Eve went on, glancing around. “The Elvis specialty.” She stepped back slightly and raised her voice toward the glowing hallway. “Hey! Gary?”

There was a faint whirring sound as a silver blur stepped into the room with an eager hum of servos.

"How can I be of assistance Miss Teschmacher?" he chirped.

Eve gave him a tired smile. “Just Eve is fine... Gary, do we have any food here?”

“Negative,” Gary said cheerfully. “The Fortress of Solitude is not optimized for biological sustenance. The closest thing we have is two bags of kibble, extra beefy flavor which the canine did not even bother to eat."

Eve glanced at Ultraman.

He was still watching her, but his head tilted, ever so slightly, toward the robot.

Eve looked back at Gary. “Do we at least have a blanket?”

“Would an old cape suffice?”

“If its warm. And maybe… I dunno? Something for him to hold.”

Gary gave a nod before zipping out.

Eve turned back to Ultraman, letting her hand rest gently on the metal edge of the chair.

“We’ll get you food later,” she said. “I promise.”

Ultraman blinked slowly.

His shoulders, once coiled tight as wires, just barely sagged.

Eve exhaled.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “You’re still in there.”

---

"Is he usually like this when he's mad?" Metamorpho asked Guy Gardner.

Guy didn’t answer right away. He was leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching Mister Terrific pace through the wreckage of what used to be a state-of-the-art interdimensional sanitation array. Terrific’s face was calm and focused, but the way he kept occasionally toeing aside chunks of mangled circuitry with just a little too much force said otherwise.

“I’ve seen him madder,” Guy muttered. “Once. During a poker game when Booster tried to hack his T-Spheres.”

“That… sounds brave.”

“Booster is stupid, don't get it mixed up.”

Metamorpho nodded thoughtfully.

Terrific stopped pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, quietly, “Alright. So where do I get the full story of how our toilets got turned into a boom tube?”

Metamorpho opened his mouth, guilt already bubbling behind his eyes, but Superman raised a hand and stepped forward.

“It was my call,” he said.

Terrific stared at him for a long moment and then sighed.

“Of course it was,” he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. “Of course Superman reverse-engineers a quantum portal in the Hall of Justice bathroom with the help of a LuthorCorp defector and a talking occasional gas cloud. Why wouldn’t that happen this week?”

Superman winced slightly. “I can fix it.”

“You’re not touching any of these toilets.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Terrific said, waving him off. He gave another slow sigh and finally, finally stopped pacing. “Look. I’m not mad. Or—okay, I’m mad. But mostly I’m impressed none of you got yourselves disintegrated.”

He turned to Rex. “You alright?”

“Just lost a little bit of phosphorus,” Metamorpho replied. “Which is fine. I’m mostly calcium and bad decisions at this point.”

Terrific gave him a small nod. Then his eyes slid back to Superman.

“So. Where is he now?”

“Safe. I took him to the Fortress. Bound, sedated, secure.”

“Still hostile?”

“Scared,” Superman said after taking a moment to come up with the reply. “Confused. But yes. He lashed out—Guy and Kendra took hits—"

"I don't know if I would describe it as a hit per se," Guy made sure to add.

"—he just… doesn’t really know what he is.”

“And you do?”

Superman paused.

“No,” he admitted. “Not yet. But I think… I think I know who he could be.”

Terrific raised a brow. “Explain.”

Superman folded his arms, glancing at the shattered stall doors. His reflection looked jagged in the remaining shards of mirror on the ground.

“I believed he was just a weapon,” he said. “A puppet Lex built to prove something, but the way he went back in for Eve…”

---

Ultraman had one tight hand around his neck.

His other hand trembled slightly at his side, twitching with the buildup of a final strike.

“Eve…? Where’s… Eve?”

Eve.

Her name.

His face settled into recognition right as he let go of Superman’s throat and in the blink of an eye, he took off into the portal.

---

“... that wasn’t programming. It was something like connection."

Terrific frowned. “I find it hard to believe that Lex Luthor would make it so that your clone can get all touchy-feely.”

“Then he’s not just a clone.”

The room fell quiet again.

Guy Gardner coughed over the silence. “So what’s the plan if we're not just going to exterminate this thing? Group therapy? Cuddles in the Fortress?”

“I don’t know yet,” Superman admitted. “But whatever we do… it has to be better than what Lex did to him.”

Chapter 6: Clarabelle. The goat that sings opera.

"... the number you are trying to dial is not available at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep."

BEEP.

"Hey Eve... it’s Jimmy. Or—I guess you can probably already see that on your end."

He paused.

"Anyway. Uh. Just checking in. Again. Can you, like… call me back? Or text. Or send smoke signals or something, just—let me know if you’re okay."

He paused again.

"I’m not trying to be pushy. I just… miss you, I guess. Okay. Bye."

Jimmy hung up, then immediately tossed his phone face-down onto his desk like it had insulted his haircut. His hands dragged down his face with an exaggerated groan as he slumped forward, elbows bracketing a stack of half-finished printouts and two rapidly cooling coffees.

Lois looked up from her end of the bullpen. “That the world-ending scoop you’ve been chasing all week Jimmy?”

He groaned again, muffled into his palms. “No.”

She stood and crossed the short distance between them, hands tucked into the pockets of her blazer. “You’re doing that thing where you sigh like a wounded gazelle. Talk to me.”

Jimmy tilted his head up just enough to glare at her through his fingers. “It’s Eve.”

“Something happen?”

Jimmy sat up properly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. That’s the thing. She went from practically obsessed with me—like, aggressively scheduling brunch, dropping off weird protein bars, sending me a meme like every hour—to... nothing. Radio silence. One-word texts. Eye contact embargo.” He sighed again. “It all changed after she had that one private meet-up with Superman.”

Lois blinked once, slowly.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not!” He turned in his chair, peering toward the amenities. “Clark! Back me up, man!”

Clark, who had been trying very hard to look absorbed in the coffee machine and not at all like he could hear everything from three desks away, froze mid-pour. He glanced over sheepishly.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat. “Jimmy’s definitely… not the jealous type. Probably.”

Jimmy threw up his hands. “Thank you!”

Lois folded her arms. “You realize that was the weakest endorsement in history, right?”

“I just think it’s weird!” Jimmy protested. “She tells me I’m the only person she trusts and suddenly I can barely get her to call and I'm catching Superman in her apartment. That’s not normal!”

While Lois and Jimmy continued their bickering, Clark quietly replaced the carafe beneath the coffee machine, the faint whir of the burner masking the low hum of the Daily Planet's usual background chaos. He stirred a splash of cream into his mug.

“Hey Kent,” Steve said, nudging him with an unwelcome elbow. “You wanna put money down on Poatan?”

Clark blinked. “Poatan?”

“Alex Pereira, man,” Steve said, already scrolling through his phone to show the poster for the next UFC card. “The guy hits like a truck driven by another truck. He’s fighting Big Ank in the rematch next Saturday.”

“I thought you were a football guy?”

Steve scoffed. “Football’s seasonal. Violence is forever. So what do you say? Fifty bucks says Poatan drops him in two.”

Clark sipped his coffee. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Come on, Smallville. You’ve got the whole quiet guy in the corner who probably knows judo thing about you. I figured you’d be into this.”

“I just think people should resolve their issues… without kicks to the head.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “That’s why you're not a betting man.”

Clark gave a shrug and turned back toward his desk, just in time to hear—

“—it’s not a situationship!” Lois was saying, arms thrown out in disbelief. “You don’t situationship someone who’s saved you from orbit.”

“Oh my god,” Jimmy replied, deadpan. “You are emotionally compromised by a demigod.”

Clark lingered at the edge of the conversation. He took a slow sip of coffee.

Lois caught him watching and pointed a finger like a prosecutor at trial. “You. You tell him.”

Clark blinked. “Tell him… what?”

“That what I have with Superman is real.”

Clark hesitated. “I think—uh—Superman… really values… your insight.”

"Why are you guys always ganging up on me?"

Lois narrowed her eyes. “You just don’t get it because you and Eve had the weirdest courtship I’ve ever seen. You do realize meeting up in shady alleyways isn’t foreplay, right?”

Jimmy turned red. “They were flirty meet-ups!”

Lois scoffed.

Clark stared at the ceiling.

Steve wandered by again, pausing just long enough to comment: “Tell me when the gossip circle breaks up—I need one of you to write copy for the Ankalaev fight preview.”

Lois waved him off with a dismissive flick of her hand.

---

"Designated subject appears restless," reported Superman Robot Number Four, his single blue optic blinking in time with the monitor feed as Ultraman shifted in his restraints for the third time in as many minutes.

"Yes, thank you, Gary," droned Superman Robot Number Five from her perch behind a reinforced bulkhead. "We all have eyes."

"Not all of us," chirped Number Seven, who had lost their visual sensors during the hallway incident and now functioned primarily via sonar. "But point taken."

Ultraman groaned unhappily on the screen. His chair creaked beneath him as his shoulder twitched violently against one of the clasps.

Number Eight shivered. "What if subject escapes?"

"Protocol suggests comforting measures may reduce stress responses," said Number Nine, peering nervously into the room through a small viewing slit.

"Excellent!" said Number Ten, already inching backward. "I nominate Gary to perform the necessary comforting measures."

Gary blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You have already been in the room with him," said Five, pointing a long metal finger. "You are familiar and a known quantity."

"Yes, well," Gary said, adjusting his vocal modulator with prim irritation, "I was in the room with Miss Teschmacher. Who is, need I remind you, capable of soothing the subject. I am not."

"She is asleep now and at peace," said Number Eight.

"Precisely my point," Gary threw up his arms in frustration. "Without her I am but a shiny blender with legs standing two feet away from an extremely muscular biological hazard."

There was a pause.

Then Seven offered: "You could bring him Superman's old cape to serve as a blanket again?"

"A blanket," Gary scoffed. "Yes. That will stop him from once again snapping me in half like a novelty straw."

"I do not detect the problem," said another voice behind them.

They all turned.

Superman Robot Number Twelve stood in the doorway, arms casually full.

She tilted her head. “He appears cold and dehydrated. And emotionally stunned. Do you recall what Superman would suggest for all three?”

“Kindness?” offered Seven.

Twelve nodded. “Kindness.”

Gary made a strangled beeping noise. “Subject previously ripped your head off.”

“Correction: I was cut in half by threat number two.”

“I do not believe that is any better.”

But it was too late. Twelve was already walking toward the door, her servos humming quietly.

Inside the observation room, Ultraman lay still. His eyes were open, staring not at anything, but through it. His chest rose and fell with unsteady rhythm. His muscles were taut, as if some internal alarm refused to reset.

The door hissed and his gaze snapped to it instantly.

He growled.

But Twelve didn’t flinch.

“Good morning,” she greeted cheerfully.

She set the old cape turned blanket gently over his form. 

Ultraman’s eyes followed her hands as she picked up the tablet.

“I lack data on your entertainment preferences,” Twelve said, initiating playback. “This program features a goat who performs opera and operates a bakery. Designation: Clarabelle.”

She positioned the tablet precisely against Ultraman’s restrained arm at a ninety-degree angle for optimal viewing. Bright and utterly surreal music began to play.

Ultraman stared and then blinked.

His brow creased in confusion.

Twelve retracted two paces.

“Appreciation not required. Presence is the only necessary parameter.”

She remained there diligently as the voice of Clarabelle sang out.

Outside the glass, the other robots watched in stunned silence.

"I... cannot believe that worked," Gary said. 

“She is the good robot,” said Number Nine in awe, watching Ultraman’s breathing begin to slow. “She brought cartoons.”

“And didn’t get exploded.”

Gary's servos compressed into scowl formation. “Show-off.”

---

"Can I open my eyes yet?"

"Not yet," Lex said, voice close behind her ear. "Just a little further. Trust me."

The wind was sharp—icy fingers slipping beneath the hem of her coat. Eve felt it more than usual. Everything felt more. The cold and the thrill and the pounding of her heart.

"Okay," he said. "Now."

She opened her eyes.

The city sparkled beneath her like scattered diamonds on black velvet. LuthorCorp stood taller than anything else. Eve caught her breath—not because of the view, but rather, it was the moment which drew awe out of her.

Lex was kneeling.

A small velvet box sat open in his palm. Inside where one might expect to find a ring was instead a band of white-gold circuitry, humming faintly with embedded tech. Lex Luthor’s very own design.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh my god.”

A chuckle. “I thought you’d say yes.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Yes! Of course. Oh my god, Lex—”

She was babbling already. Dreaming out loud. “We could go anywhere. Do anything. What about the wedding? Here in Metropolis or somewhere out—”

He stood.

She blinked, startled by how fast he had moved and even more so, by how close he had gotten.

“Eve,” he said. “Stop.”

She paused, still smiling. Still glowing. “Sorry. I just—I’m excited. I mean, you’ve been so distant lately and now this and—”

“You misunderstand,” Lex said, stepping closer. His shadow swallowed her. “You don't get to be excited. I expect you to be obedient.”

“What?”

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said, tucking the box away without breaking eye contact. “I’m claiming you.”

Her mouth opened but no sound came.

“You don’t get to imagine little road trips or charity galas or whatever treacly garbage you’ve been stuffing in that head.” He raised a hand and gently cupped her cheek. “You get me. You get to stand beside me. And that gets to be everything to you.”

She stepped back.

“No.”

Lex’s fingers tightened around her wrist before she even moved a second step.

“No?” he repeated. “You don’t say no to me, Eve.”

Her voice cracked. “Let go.”

“You’re mine,” he hissed. “You have always been mine.”

She yanked her hand free, stumbling back toward the roof’s edge.

No railing.

Just open sky behind her.

“Lex,” she said, voice hoarse. “Please. This isn’t funny.”

He smiled.

The same smile he’d worn during breakthroughs and during breakdowns.

“You are worth nothing without me."

She hardly had time to process his words before he shoved her.

The wind screamed louder than she could.

The lights blurred.

And she was falling—

Falling—

Screaming—

"Woah! Hey, hey, hey relax!" 

She looked around wildly, her heart racing as she panted. She touched Superman’s face to make sure he was real.

He caught her hands gently, his palms warm and steady as they pressed over hers. “You’re okay,” he reassured. “You’re safe. You’re at the Fortress. You were just sleeping.”

Eve’s eyes darted around the glowing chamber, her breath still ragged. The blankets tangled around her legs, the faint hum of alien tech all around, the soft flicker of crystalline light against the walls—it all felt real. Grounded. The opposite of what she’d just seen.

“I—I was dreaming,” she whispered, slowly lowering her hands from his face. “It felt so real.”

Superman nodded. “Nightmares tend to.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, then sat up, scrubbing a hand over her face. “God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just—” She stopped herself with a shaky laugh. “He pushed me. Off the tower. Right after he said that I was his... god, it wasn't even real. How silly of me."

Superman sat beside her on the edge of the cot and let the silence hold gently for a few seconds before speaking again. 

“It wasn’t real, but that doesn't mean he didn’t hurt you."

Eve exhaled. “I used to think I was helping him. I really did. That if I could just… be there to make things easier and smoother... that he'd be less cruel.” She rubbed her palms together, like trying to scrub the memory off. “Turns out, you can’t sandpaper the devil smooth. He just hides the horns better.” She shifted, glancing toward the far end of the Fortress. “Where is he?”

“Ultraman?” Superman followed her gaze. “Still bound, but apparently completely conscious now. Twelve put on a cartoon for him to watch.”

“A cartoon?”

"Yeah." He offered a faint shrug. “About a goat who sings opera.”

“Oh. Clarabelle.” Eve nodded, surprisingly unsurprised. “He used to get stuck on that one. We watched the first episode like thirty times in a row once.”

Superman eyebrows lifted slightly. "On that... note. We haven't really had a chance to talk about your relationship with him and all that. I’m going to be honest. The idea of a clone of me, just… existing—it's not the easiest thing to process.”

“Join the club.”

“I look at him,” Superman continued, “and I know he’s not me. I know that. But it still feels wrong. Like someone took something personal and cracked it open with a crowbar. My face and my body. Just...”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment he seemed to be choosing his words as if they were glass that might shatter on the way out.

“It’s the ultimate violation,” he said finally. "Of everything I stand for. When I first saw him down in that tunnel, I saw that Lex built a whole person out of my image without consent, without care, without… humanity.” He glanced toward the far end of the Fortress again, the crystalline light catching in his eyes. “I hate that it exists. I hate that he exists, if I’m honest.”

Eve shifted slightly, her gaze steady on him, sensing there was more.

“But,” Superman went on, “none of that is his fault. He didn’t ask to be made any more than I asked to be born. From everything you've told me, he's never gotten the chance to wake up and try to make good choices. If I treat him like he’s nothing but what Lex made him, I’m no better than Lex himself.”

Eve let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’m… relieved you’re taking this so well. Going along with my plan, I mean. I know he’s been—” she hesitated, “—a handful.”

Superman gave a wry half-smile. “Handful’s one word for it." He shrugged, like she’d just mentioned he’d scuffed his boots. “Countless broken bones, fractures, a damaged spleen and liver, a dislocated shoulder, third-degree burns…” He trailed off, watching her blink at him. “That’s hardly anything to me in the grand scheme of things.”

Her brow furrowed. “Hardly anything?”

“Eve,” he said, “I’ve been thrown into an exploding red star supernova before. Compared to that, this is Tuesday. So," he said, clasping his hands together, "we want to help him, what's the play?"

“I guess, we just… have to be patient. He doesn’t exactly know how to be loved. Or even what love is. Right now, we’re all just noises and shapes to him.”

Superman nodded again with a hum.

“Let’s try to be better noises,” she said, with a half-smile.

He chuckled faintly. “That’s a plan.”

Chapter 7: God himself could not sink this ship

"Hey."

He ignored her of course, intent on watching as Lex Luthor and the Engineer tore up the main terminal in the Fortress of Solitude for anything that they could find.

The icy shards along the walls flickered with every unauthorized access attempt. Cool blue light strobed across Lex’s face as he stood back and watched the Engineer work with surgical precision, her fingers shifting into delicate tools that dug past alien firewalls like she was peeling back the ribs of some still-living god.

“Hey,” Eve said again, nudging his arm. “I know you heard me."

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, his arms by his side and his shadowed lenses fixed on Luthor’s back.

Eve huffed. “Aren’t you bored of watching Lex break things?”

No answer.

“Come on,” she said, looping her hand around his wrist. Her gloves were fleece-lined and warm. She tugged. “Let’s go explore.”

He didn’t move.

Eve leaned in, voice dropping to a low coax. "Let’s do something less boring.”

Still no answer.

But when she tugged again, using two hands instead of one, he shifted. Not much. Just a slow turn of the head.

“I saw a whole hallway back there with glowing doors and humming crystals and a hologram of a giant yeti” she added, stepping closer. "You've never seen a hologram of a giant yeti before have you?"

His lenses flicked toward her.

“Please? I mean, Lex doesn’t need a watchdog. He’s got her—” she nodded toward the Engineer.

Ultraman didn’t speak, but finally, he moved, turning his back on the central terminal as he followed her.

Eve grinned in victory.

She looped her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His boots were unnaturally heavy against the crystal floor. Eve bounced from display to display, oohing and aahing like they were in a theme park instead of an alien archive carved into arctic desolation.

“Oh my god, look at this one,” she said, spinning in front of a shimmering containment orb that hovered in midair. “It looks like a jellyfish. You seeing this?”

He gave the orb a glance. Then resumed his slow trudge.

Eve pouted theatrically and turned her phone around for a selfie. “Okay, serious face now. Say Fortress Friends.” She snapped the photo, then peeked at it. “Ugh. You look like you’re about to vaporize me.”

They passed another corridor, one filled with statues carved from shimmering white metal, each depicting a different robed figure with the crest of the House of El etched somewhere subtle. Eve tilted her head to examine one before turning back toward Ultraman, who had stopped several paces behind to watch her go along. 

“You do not look like you’re having a good time,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “I dragged you away from world domination for this. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He tilted his head slightly, the motion carrying with it a clear message.

We should go back.

Eve rolled her eyes. “Lex can live without you for ten minutes.”

Before he could argue (not that he ever really did), she pivoted toward a side hallway and bounded ahead.

“Wait—look at this one!”

The doorway led into a round chamber glowing with pale teal light. Inside was nothing but empty space, but when Eve stepped inside, she promptly began to float.

“Aha!” she shouted, spinning gently. Her ponytail drifted behind her like seaweed. “Zero-g room! I knew there had to be something like this!” She kicked off the wall, turning in slow, lazy corkscrews. “Come on in! It’s so weird! I feel like laundry!”

Ultraman stopped in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the ambient glow.

Eve backstroked through the air, giggling. “You know you want to try it. Just cause you can already fly doesn’t mean this isn't fun."

Ultraman didn’t move.

"Suit yourself,” she huffed. “But you’re missing out."

She drifted back toward the door, caught the edge of the frame, and pulled herself out with a little spin. Her boots touched the floor with a clink. Ultraman turned, already preparing to head back toward the central chamber.

“Uh-uh,” she said, skipping ahead of him. “I’m not done poking around. One more room. Just one. I feel lucky. You feel lucky?”

Silence.

“Cool, I’ll take that as a yes.”

The corridor curved downward, subtly at first, then more steeply, until the crystal walls darkened to a pale grey-blue and widened into what felt more like a loading dock than a sanctum. Strange scaffolding and lifts stretched up into darkness, along with old cranes, transport rails, and what looked suspiciously like parking space markers carved into the floor. They passed a rusted fuel rig that looked like it had come off a Martian drilling expedition.

“Oh my god,” Eve breathed when they came across one particular sight. “No way.”

The Titanic loomed ahead.

Gleaming with strange alien repairs, silver seam lines running down her hull like careful stitches. She sat moored in a cradle of light, her bow lifting proudly into the air like nothing had ever happened to her.

“Okay, okay, what,” Eve said, turning in a slow circle. “What is this? Why is this here?"

Ultraman remained still beside her, his head tilted slightly.

“No, don’t tell me,” she said, lifting a finger. “I want to guess... Superman is either a hoarder, or this is where cool things go to hide from history.”

She reached the gangplank and paused.

“Should we…?”

No answer. Which was as close to a yes as she was going to get.

Eve grinned and jogged aboard.

Inside, the Titanic was shockingly well-preserved. Polished wood, plush red carpets, chandeliers flickering with soft, artificial light. It was eerily grand.

Ultraman followed silently as she darted from room to room. In the grand staircase, she posed dramatically at the top, hand on the railing.

“I’m flying, Jack!” she called, before pausing. “Wait, no, wrong scene. That’s later.”

They reached the forward deck. She ran to the bow, pulling her arms out wide.

“Now I’m flying, Jack!”

Ultraman stood behind her, vaguely confused.

She turned, beaming. “Okay, your turn. You stand here. I’ll teach you how to say: I’m the king of the world!"

He didn’t respond.

“Okay, maybe later.”

They wandered the ship for a while—Eve humming bits of the score to herself, muttering lines from memory, stopping now and then to adjust imaginary costume jewelry. She reenacted the drawing scene using a packet of gum and a napkin. She sang her own rendition of My Heart Will Go On. She even tried to get him to dance in the third-class parlor.

“Come on. It’s training.”

Ultraman blinked at her.

“No, really,” she insisted, stepping closer. “Coordination and balance and reactive awareness. All that good stuff.”

He didn’t take her hand and so she switched tactics.

“Lex would want you to get better at blending in, right? Well, people dance. It’s a thing. Even Superman does it."

Slowly, he reached out. Their hands met. Hers small, gloved. His huge, gloved.

“Good,” she said softly. “Okay. This one’s called a waltz. It’s just three steps, over and over. Box pattern. Very simple. Watch my feet."

She guided his other hand to her waist, then placed hers on his shoulder.

"Now just relax and glide."

He stared at her.

“Glide,” she repeated, amused. “Pretend we’re ice skating."

The Titanic creaked softly around them as she began to move slowly and deliberately, guiding his steps like a current tugging at driftwood.

“One, two, three,” she murmured. “One, two, three…”

His boots scraped the floor, their rhythm far from graceful.

Eve counted under her breath, keeping her tone light. “You’re doing it. Look at that. King of the dance floor.”

She began to hum again—My Heart Will Go On, soft and wobbly, breath catching on the high notes. Her own rhythm steadied. So did his.

They turned slowly, the warm and golden light of the Titanic casting long shadows across polished wood and velvet trim.

Eve laughed suddenly. “You’re actually doing it.”

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t stop either.

Not even when she let one hand drop to spin beneath his arm. Not even when she tripped slightly and he caught her.

---

"You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count."

Eve blinked against the sudden wetness in her eyes and shoved another handful of popcorn into her mouth before it could be interpreted as emotion. “God,” she muttered, half around the kernels. “He’s so full of crap and I love him.”

Ultraman didn’t reply. He just stared at the screen, unmoving in his restraints except for the slight twitch of his thumb, which had found its way into the bucket of popcorn nestled in his lap by Twelve.

They’d arranged the projection just in front of him, a floating hard-light screen tuned to the original theatrical cut in 4K.

Jack Dawson held court in the first-class dining room, while Eve sat cross-legged on the floor beside Ultraman’s chair, nursing a lukewarm soda and emotionally preparing herself for the second half of the movie.

“I always forget how charming he is,” she said, elbowing Ultraman lightly. “He’s not even trying that hard. Kinda like Jimmy."

The robots, hovering just outside the room, whispered to one another in increasingly giddy tones.

“He’s engaging with the media,” said Number Nine, tone hushed and reverent.

“And eating the snacks we provided,” said Twenty Two, practically vibrating.

“I told you Clarabelle softened him up,” Twelve whispered proudly.

“Quiet,” Gary urged. “You are going to ruin the emotional climax of the second act.”

Rose climbed onto the bow and the theme swelled.

Eve sniffled, fished a napkin out of her hoodie pocket, and dabbed at her nose. “Don’t judge me. You’d cry too if your heart was capable of being pierced by steel.”

The movie’s final notes faded into soft strings. The screen dimmed slowly, the last image of an old woman’s peaceful dream giving way to credits in elegant serif.

Eve stretched her legs out with a groan. “Man. Still a masterpiece."

Ultraman didn’t move.

She glanced up at him, expecting the same stone-faced indifference he’d maintained for the entire film. But his eyes were instead fixed forward and down his cheek—

A single tear.

Eve froze.

Then, slowly, she reached up with the napkin still crumpled in her hoodie sleeve. She brushed the tear away with a gentle, unhurried motion. As soft as if she were handling something sacred.

Outside, in the hallway, the robots watched with the reverence of monks witnessing a miracle.

“I knew he was a softie,” whispered Twelve, her optic shining like a proud parent. “Just like our Superman.”

---

The restraints clinked against themselves as Lex Luthor walked. If one could call it walking with that much iron on your spine. Heavy cuffs linked ankles to waist, wrists to belt and every inch in between was braced with enough control-grade metal to hold a T-Rex on sedatives.

He made no sound and neither did his guards.

They flanked him in full riot gear, their visors down and batons holstered but fingers twitching near the clasps.

Belle Reeve had no illusions of rehabilitation. Containment was its only purpose.

At last, they reached the visitor room.

It was small and embedded with enough tech to fry a drone swarm. 

One chair. 

One table. 

One man already seated on the other side.

Lex paused in the doorway.

“No.”

He turned immediately.

The guards shoved him inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

As Lex turned back to face the room, his jaw flexed.

“Of course,” he muttered, venom coiling around every syllable. “It would be you.”

Superman remained seated, his hands calmly folded in front of him.

Lex sneered. “What is this? A victory lap? You’re going to gloat now? Wave from your ivory cloud and remind me of everything I’ve lost?”

“No.”

“Because let me save you the trouble,” Lex spat, striding forward despite the weight of his chains. “I know what I’ve lost. I know what you’ve taken. My company. My work. My legacy. All of it, shattered and gutted and fed to the public like a morality play. And now you’re here, what—looking for applause?"

No,” Superman repeated. “I pulled strings to get this visit. Because I needed to look you in the eye.”

Lex’s lip curled.

"I came for answers," Superman said. "Sit down, please."

Lex paced instead. His chains dragged behind him like a leash he refused to acknowledge. His eyes never left Superman’s.

“I want to talk about my clone,” he said.

“You want to know about him,” Lex said, circling slowly. “The brute. The dog you threw into a infinite irregularity like yesterday’s garbage."

Superman’s eyes stayed steady. “He survived.”

Lex made a small, humorless sound. “Of course he did. I designed him to.”

Superman’s jaw tightened. "You told me he was simple. And what I got from that is that you made him obedient too."

Lex smiled thinly. “He is. That's the whole point.”

“But he’s not anymore,” Superman said. “He can think. He can feel."

Lex stopped pacing. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face—doubt, perhaps, or disappointment. Or worse: amusement.

“Well,” he said. “Isn’t that adorable.”

Superman didn’t blink. “You stripped everything from him. Identity. Autonomy. You created him to be nothing.”

“I created him to be useful,” Lex snapped, turning sharply. “To be predictable. I took your chaos and gave it purpose. I gave you clarity. If only you’d been smart enough to appreciate it.”

Superman stood to meet him at his level. “He’s not me.”

“No,” Lex said, lip curling. “He’s better.”

“He’s hurting.”

Lex tilted his head. “So you came here looking for what? A manual? You want to understand him?”

“I want the truth,” Superman said. “All of it. How much you controlled him. What you did to him. And how Eve fits into that.”

Lex blinked and then allowed his smile to widen, serpentine and slow.

“Ah,” he said. “There it is.”

He moved to the chair and sat at last, folding his shackled hands over the table.

“Miss Teschmacher,” he said, savoring the name. “I was wondering when she’d come up.”

“You hurt her.”

“I hurt everyone, Superman,” Lex said cheerfully. “It’s what I do.”

Superman leaned forward. “You imprisoned her in that pocket dimension and left her there to rot.”

Lex’s eyes gleamed. “She was always trying to help things that couldn’t be helped. Me. Him. Herself. Sentiment makes people stupid.”

Superman’s voice dropped. “She still carries the weight of what you did.”

“Of course she does,” Lex said. “That’s what makes it fun.”

The silence stretched.

“Do you feel bad?”

Lex blinked and then laughed a cold laugh that was metallic with delight.

“You came here to ask me that?” he said. “After everything we’ve done to each other? You think I’m going to weep into my shackles? Lament the cruel hand of fate? Feel guilty for making a tool and discarding it? For breaking a girl who was too naïve to understand what side she was on?”

Superman didn’t move nor did he speak.

Lex leaned forward, eyes glittering.

“No, I don’t feel bad,” he said. “I feel vindicated. Everything I built—he was the proof of concept. The better Superman. The one who understood the ideals of humanity reigning above all else.”

“And what did you do if he ever questioned those ideals?” Superman asked.

Lex’s smile twitched.

“I punished him,” he said, leaning back. “Because that’s what you do with dogs who forget the leash.”

Superman’s hands curled into fists. "You make it really difficult to forgive you."

"Good."

"She has nightmares about you. And I suspect that he does too."

"Good."

"Darn it Lex!"

The walls didn’t shake, but they felt like they should have.

“You know what the worst part is?” Superman said, stepping closer. “I’ve seen monsters change. I’ve seen tyrants fall to their knees and ask for help. I’ve watched people crawl back from worse than what you’ve done. And I still believe you could—if you wanted to.”

Lex didn’t respond.

“You could help him,” Superman pressed. “You could help her. You could look at the wreckage you made and choose to do something right for once.”

Lex stared at him across the table.

“You want a redemption arc?” he said flatly.

“I want you to try,” Superman snapped.

There was a pause.

Then Lex leaned forward again, elbows on the table, that same glassy calm in his expression.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Can I go now?”

Superman said nothing. For a moment, the only sound was the soft whir of the surveillance drones tracking every movement in the room.

"Being human," he started calmly, "that's all it takes to—"

"Lalalalalala—"

Lex plugged his ears like a bratty schoolboy, shackles clinking against his skull as he leaned back in the chair, eyes wide and mocking. "I can't hear you, Superman! Oops! Must be the sound of moral superiority ringing in my ears!"

Superman exhaled slowly through his nose. 

"Dude."

Chapter 8: Bold and Brash

Clark set the plate down in front of her, steam curling off the pancakes and hashbrowns. “Bone apple tea,” he said with a smile which was warmer than the plate.

Lois didn’t hide her grin. “Breakfast for dinner. The best idea you ever had.” She nudged her laptop aside. “God, is that cinnamon?”

“Just a pinch. Ma used to do that whenever the eggs needed cheering up.”

She dug in with no hesitation, typing with one hand while the other scooped food. “Mmh. You’re officially my favorite person today.”

“That’s a relief,” he exhaled, settling beside her. “I was worried Perry’s donut stash had me beat.”

“You were losing,” she said around a bite. “But pancakes with cinnamon? Strong comeback.”

For a while, only the radiator filled the silence. Then Lois glanced over. “So. Day off. What’d you do with yourself?”

Clark cut into his eggs. “I went to see Lex.”

“Luthor?”

He nodded. “Belle Reve allowed it. I needed to talk to him… about the clone. About Eve.”

Lois gave a low whistle. “You just rang up the feds and asked for face time with Lex Luthor?”

“More or less.”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I forget how many strings you could pull if you wanted to. And sometimes I forget you actually pull them.”

“I don’t like to,” Clark admitted. “But some things matter too much not to try.”

Lois leaned back, studying him. “So? Get anything I can spin into an article? Sources familiar with the conversation and all that?”

He looked down momentarily. “Only if you want to quote, ‘I punished him… because that’s what you do with dogs who forget the leash.’”

Lois blinked. “Wow. Even for him, that’s… yikes.”

Clark didn’t flinch. “I think he wanted me to see he’s proud of what he did. Or maybe he just wanted me to think he was.”

She set her fork down. “And you don’t buy it?”

“Not really.” He hesitated. “And I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh yeah?” she challenged, sipping her coffee. “What am I going to say?”

“That I’m too hopeful. That he’ll twist any chance into another scheme. That people like him don’t change.”

Lois smirked. “That does sound like me.”

"Well the voice could do some work although—"

“But not this time.”

He turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t think hope is the problem,” she said. “I just don’t know if Lex is capable of hearing it. You talk to him like Superman, he’s always going to see it as a fight.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?”

She shrugged. “I think if someone like him ever had a shot, it’d be because somebody refused to stop seeing the human under the monster. You’re annoyingly good at that.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “If he really didn’t care, he wouldn’t have laughed at me. He would’ve dismissed it outright. But he didn’t. He wanted me to know he heard."

Lois gave him a long look, pragmatic as ever, but his hope caught at her. Finally she leaned into his shoulder. “I’ll say this much: you’ve got the patience of a saint. Me? If he fell into a volcano tomorrow, I’d bring marshmallows. But I’m glad at least one of us can see past that.”

Clark’s arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close. The weight in him didn’t vanish, but it lightened.

Lois tapped his chest gently. “Hey. Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve already made a difference. Eve’s standing on her own again. Your clone hasn’t gone down some path of destruction. That’s you. It's gotta be.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does,” she said simply. “But that’s why you keep showing up. That’s why people believe in you.”

Her hand found his, fingers threading. His eyes softened, his whole face warming with that quiet, stubborn light she could never quite argue with.

She smiled against his lips when he kissed her.

And when they finally pulled back, Lois murmured, dry but tender, “We’ll fix this mess. One psycho billionaire, one clone and one traumatized assistant at a time.”

---

“So uh... this is nice.”

Jimmy adjusted his collar, glancing around the quiet Italian place he’d carefully picked out. Low lighting, a cozy booth and a string quartet playing faintly over the speakers. The kind of place that said date, not stakeout, and definitely not LuthorCorp debriefing room B.

Across from him, Eve sat hunched slightly forward, the candlelight flickering off her screen. Her thumb scrolled, paused, scrolled again. Her untouched glass of wine had a single condensation ring beneath it, marking the time which had passed since the waiter had brought the drink out.

Jimmy smiled anyway. “I mean, hey, third-best lasagna in Metropolis, table next to the window and me in a blazer? That’s a win, right? Three wins... right?”

“Uh-huh,” Eve murmured. She didn’t look up.

He reached for the breadbasket. “Did you know this place used to be a speakeasy? Like, full-on mobster tunnels and illegal gin.”

“That’s cool,” she said, still not looking.

Jimmy slowly buttered a roll. “I also read somewhere the back room is haunted. By an old bootlegger who still wants his tips.”

“Mmh.”

"... excuse me for a sec."

He stood and pushed his chair in with faux confidence, stepping gingerly off toward the bathroom. Moments later he was staring at himself in the mirror, hands braced on the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His reflection stared back at him, slightly sweaty and inexplicably disheveled despite the fact that he had barely moved all night. The candlelight from the restaurant hadn’t been flattering, but the overhead fluorescents were downright cruel.

“This is fine,” he muttered. “Everything’s fine. This is just... how dates go sometimes. Real casual."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled past his contacts: “Mom (Home),” “Mom (Work),” “Clark Don’t Text During Crises,” "Lulu", "Trixie", "Fifi", "Rosita Chiquita Juanita Chihuahua" and landed, with an audible sigh, on Cat Grant.

He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, and hit call.

It rang once. Twice.

Jimmy imagined what Cat Grant would say. Probably something cutting and theatrical like “If you’re calling for advice, grow a backbone first."

He hit end call before it could connect.

“Yeah. Nope. No. Nope.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket, splashed cold water on his face, and took a deep breath.

“Okay. Okay, Jimmy. You’re charming. You’re funny. You are not getting friend zoned at a restaurant that serves pasta the size of your head.”

He straightened his jacket, wiped his hands, and made his way back to the table.

Eve still hadn’t touched her wine.

“Hey, Jimmy,” she said, suddenly looking up with the faintest hint of animation. “Which Pop-Tart flavor do you think is better: Cherry or Frosted S’mores?”

He blinked. “Uh, S’mores. No contest."

She gave a tiny smirk — the first all night — and typed something on her phone. He saw the message send, a blue bubble zipping off into the digital void.

Jimmy leaned in slightly. "I once lived off them for a week during a stakeout.”

She made a face. “That sounds like food poisoning waiting to happen.”

“It was, but on the plus side, I got a Pulitzer-shortlisted photo out of it. And a newfound respect for my digestive tract.”

She gave a soft, almost involuntary laugh. His breath caught as he grabbed for it and held onto it like a thread.

“Hey, uh, Eve,” he said gently, “I know you’ve been through a lot. And I don’t want to push. But if you need to talk—”

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced down.

Her face changed instantly. Lit up in a way it hadn’t all evening. She gasped and tapped the screen with urgent excitement.

“Gary! You absolute genius!” she blurted, almost to herself. Then to him: “Sorry—sorry, Jimmy, I just—I have to go. This might be important.”

She was already halfway out of the booth before he could say anything.

“Wait, do you—” he started, then stopped. “Do you need me to drive you or...?”

But she was at the door already, phone to her ear, nodding to herself, coat half-on, the restaurant’s warm light glinting off her hair as she pushed outside into the night.

Jimmy sat back down. The candle flickered. Somewhere in the background, the quartet shifted into a wistful string rendition of Fly Me to the Moon.

He looked at her untouched wine and at her untouched lasagna.

The waiter approached with a sympathetic half-smile, towel draped over one arm and a practiced air of discretion.

“Would you like a refill, sir?” he asked, gesturing lightly toward the nearly full glass still sitting across from Jimmy.

Jimmy looked at it, then at his own glass, only half-empty and slightly smudged from his nervous grip.

"... why not?"

---

Ultraman’s large fingers clutched a variety of stubby crayons. He pressed down hard—his version of gentle—and sketched two stick figures: one clad in black, the other with a ponytail and a tiny heart on its chest. Beneath them, he drew a jagged line that looked vaguely like either a mountain or a roofline.

Gary snapped a photo with a soft click. He projected the image onto a nearby holo-screen so the others could see.

“Miss Teschmacher would be most pleased to see this,” he said, his tone warm with approval.

Ultraman stared at the projection of his creation with a tilted head. Without a word, he picked up a purple crayon and added a sun in the corner of the drawing, then dotted a line of tiny circles between the two figures. When he finished, he stared at the page for a long moment.

He reached out with a hesitant hand and tapped the tiny red heart on Eve’s stick-figure chest. 

Twelve gently peeled Ultraman’s stick-figure drawing from the floor and affixed it to the wall. It stepped back, it's single optic lens emitting a tiny pulse of approval.

“I’ll upgrade the display to include a caption,” Twenty Two offered.

“Perfect.”

Ultraman watched the robots fuss over his picture, head tilted in that earnest way he’d learned from Eve. Then, in a deliberate motion, he picked up a fresh sheet of paper and reached for a bright red crayon.

He tapped the tip of the crayon once, twice, deliberating. Then clumsily and uncertainly, he began to draw a familiar shield shape: a diamond frame with something of an S inside.

Except the lines came out reversed, like a letter pressed against glass.

The symbol slanted backward, the angles off by a crooked margin, the bottom point of the diamond skewed to the left instead of the right. He folded his lips in concentration, then stepped back and held the paper up to better observe it.

Gary drifted forward. "The symbol of the House of El. Almost perfect, but not quite.”

A low, wordless hum rose from his throat, half in memory and half in wonder. He stared at it, then at the wall where Superman’s correctly oriented logo gleamed in hard-light projection.

He exhaled a slow breath, and with a careful motion, held the drawing out toward Twelve. 

“Would you like me to display this one as well?”

Ultraman nodded once.

Chapter 9: Canis Lupus, Vulpes Vulpes

"We need to arrest Superman now."

"Yes Lex," Rick Flag Sr said with a sigh. "I heard you the first ten times."

They stood in Metropolis's town hall—converted overnight into a nerve center. Outside, the sound of protesters and the army grew louder, drums of anger echoing up the marble steps. Inside, a digital map flickered on a screen propped up by sandbags.

The Engineer stood with arms folded, head tilted as if analyzing something in a different dimension. Two armed soldiers flanked the entrance to keep watch.

Ultraman stood at the edge of the room, still as a statue. His eyes tracked Lex’s every movement.

Lex jabbed a finger at the map.

“Right there. That’s where he’s hiding. Northwest Arctic Circle. 83°N, 45°W. I told you, it’s a structure embedded into the ice—camouflaged, but it’s real.”

Rick Flag shook his head slowly.

“You can’t just march into the Arctic, Lex. It’s not America’s backyard. That’s international territory. No sovereign rule, no legal jurisdiction. We still have to do things by the book, strange as the circumstances may be."

“I don’t need international permission to detain a walking war crime,” Lex snapped. “The world saw the message from his people. He's not one of us."

Flag met his eyes, unflinching. “Protocol is protocol. You break that line, even once, and this whole thing of your's collapses."

Lex’s jaw clenched. The cords in his neck tightened like cables pulled taut. Then, he smiled calmly.

“Of course. You're right General. It’s important to follow procedure.”

He turned sharply on his heel.

“I’ll go make some calls,” he said, already walking toward the exit. “Engineer. Ultraman. Stay with Flag.”

Ultraman moved without thought to follow, his heavy boots echoing once across the marble. Lex didn’t break stride, he simply snapped a quick:

“Stay.”

Ultraman stopped. His posture didn’t change. But something flickered in the space between seconds... confusion... disappointment…

Lex didn’t look back as the door slammed behind him.

Flag watched the clone return to stillness, standing by the wall again like a forgotten statue.

"You know, if I could throw trucks around like paperweights, I probably wouldn't let anyone talk to me like that."

The Engineer didn't move her head when she spoke. Still watching the flickering map.

"He was designed that way. Powerful and obedient. Nothing else."

Rick Flag gave a bitter scoff.

She looked at him. Her eyes glinted beneath dark lashes, sharp but not unkind.

"That’s all Lex wanted. I just helped build the bones and wire the muscles. He filled the rest in.”

Flag crossed his arms, his face souring.

“You know, I’ve seen a lot of messed-up things in black ops, but isn't this basically toeing the line of slavery?"

The Engineer raised an eyebrow.

“You'd consider him human?”

“Yeah, I mean, he's what—two months old and grown in a tube?” Flag gestured at Ultraman, who hadn’t flinched since Lex left. “He doesn’t even know what he wants. He only knows what Lex wants.”

"And that's different from the soldiers you command?" she asked coolly.

Flag narrowed his eyes.

"I don’t order my men to erase themselves. I didn't break in a weapon."

Somewhere behind them, quiet and unnoticed, Ultraman blinked.

Not in response to their words, but rather because he was some place else entirely.

The marble floor beneath his feet blurred as his mind drifted away, sliding into soft and imagined color.

He thought of Eve.

Of the gentle warmth of her hand brushing his. Of how she’d sat cross-legged across from him on the carpet of her room, tongue poking out just slightly in concentration as she dipped her tiny brush into cheap polish and, with the steady precision of ritual, painted each of his nails a different shade.

One red. One green. One pale blue that shimmered like ice.

He’d held out his fingers, stiff and awkward, unsure if he was supposed to curl them or leave them flat. She’d laughed and nudged him to relax.

“You're allowed to be decorated," she'd teased.

Decorated.

He liked that word.

Ultraman’s breathing slowed. He stared forward, motionless, as Flag and the Engineer’s argument blurred into static. The marble veins in the wall danced like rivers. The screen's red targeting marker pulsed softly, like a heartbeat just out of sync.

Ultraman blinked again, and the world grew softer.

The buzz of the nerve center thinned into background static as light curved in strange ways. The air seemed to hum with half-remembered warmth.

Eve’s voice floated into his memory like a whisper through silk.

“No, no, you have to hold still or the filter glitches out. See?”

He was seated awkwardly on the floor again, criss cross applesauce style. She knelt beside him, phone angled just so, her arm wrapped around his shoulder to pull him into the frame.

On-screen, his face morphed in real time:

First, he had comically wide anime eyes.

Then, he was a cowboy with twinkling stars circling his head.

Next, a potato.

He wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh even if Eve was loudly and openly laughing.

“You’re a terrible actor,” she’d teased, flipping through more filters. "Here, try this one."

She tapped another button.

His face lit up with sparkles. Glimmering lashes. A tiara made of stardust.

He stared blankly at his beautified reflection and pondered over how much he preferred it to his actual image.

“There. Queen of the Galaxy. Long may she reign.”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The soft edges of memory collapsed. The tiled marble of the floor returned. The thrum of digital readouts. Raised voices. The sterile taste of recycled air.

Rick Flag was standing directly in front of him now, eyebrows pinched, fingers snapping repeatedly.

“You spacing out on me soldier?”

Ultraman straightened. He didn’t answer.

But his eyes shifted—and locked onto the figure that hadn’t been there a moment before.

Superman.

Standing in the center of the room.

"Arrest him!" the Engineer said in an exasperated tone which could only come about by repetition.

In a blur of force and precision, Ultraman seized his image and took it outdoors, spinning it in one brutal motion and slamming it, face-first, into the concrete just outside the town hall steps.

"Is that necessary?” came Superman's dry and muffled voice. "I'm coming in on my own accord."

Ultraman responded by pulling both arms behind Superman’s back and—click—slapping handcuffs over his wrists.

He lifted Superman easily to his feet, flipping him upright like a bag of flour.

“No one read me my rights,” Superman complained as he was lead away.

Ultraman didn’t answer, leaving the talking to Rick Flag.

His eyes were glassy again, dimmed and set to autopilot.

His hands didn’t tremble. His face didn’t twitch, but he was already drifting.

Somewhere far from Metropolis.

Somewhere where light curled around Eve’s curls as she leaned in to adjust the crown of sparkles. Somewhere where his hands were pink and blue and safe.

He walked in step with the Engineer and Rick Flag, his boots falling into practiced sync with the soldiers flanking them. Superman walked calmly in their midst, cuffed but unresisting, his cape dragging lightly across fractured concrete.

The helicopter ahead thrummed in low idle, rotors thudding slowly as if counting down to something none of them had words for.

The inside of it was loud where Superman sat cuffed, knees wide, cape pooling around his boots, brow slightly furrowed like someone halfway through solving a math problem and mildly annoyed at the answer.

Across from him, Ultraman stared.

Still as a sentry, but beneath the mask, his gaze tracked every micro-shift in Superman’s expression—the small crease above his left brow, the way his mouth tilted just a little when he exhaled through his nose, the faintest twitch in his jaw when turbulence hit.

Superman noticed, of course. His eyes flicked toward him now and then.

The flight continued.

Neither of them spoke.

But the staring didn’t stop

Their eyes would meet again and again.

---

"Superman?" Gary inquired.

"Hmm?"

"You have been standing in the same spot for three minutes, seventeen seconds. Statistically, hesitation rarely increases positive outcomes."

Superman exhaled slowly through his nose. "I’m not hesitating."

"Your pulse suggests otherwise."

Nine, Eighteen, and Twenty were clustered behind Gary like a line of nosy cousins, photoreceptors blinking in a staggered pattern that might have been curiosity. Or gossip.

"You should not feel like a stranger in your own home," Eighteen offered.

"Ultraman is not nearly as violent as the first few times you met," added Nine.

Superman turned, cape swinging in a smooth arc. "It is perfectly okay to be nervous," he said, jabbing a finger at the floor to punctuate each word. "And I don’t want the Fortress wrecked because of a possible fight."

Gary’s head swiveled, servos humming faintly. "Any fight between you and Ultraman would not be as bad as what the canine used to do on a regular basis."

Superman blinked. "Krypto never—"

"Fire pits, smashed glaciers, the incident with the molten core sample—"

"That wasn’t his fault, Gary—"

"—and the time he killed one of the wild yetis."

Superman closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "That was one time."

Nine’s photoreceptors pulsed a faint yellow. "Sir, we can accompany you, if that increases your confidence."

"It’s not my confidence I’m worried about," Superman muttered.

Eighteen’s head cocked. "Then whose?"

Superman didn’t answer. He just took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and started toward the central chamber, his footsteps echoing faintly off crystal walls.

Ultraman was there.

Superman slowed, cape whispering against the floor. He could hear his own heartbeat in the quiet as he stopped a few meters away.

“Hey,” Superman said finally, in the same tone one might use when greeting an unfamiliar neighbor in the grocery store produce aisle.

Ultraman’s gaze lifted to meet his.

“Uh.” Superman rubbed the back of his neck. “You look… well.” 

Healthy? Tall? Like someone who could punt me into the stratosphere? 

“I mean, you seem, uh, settled.”

Ultraman blinked once.

Superman shifted his weight. “You’ve been... adjusting okay? Gary says you’ve been checking out the workshop space.”

No response.

Superman’s eyes flicked to Ultraman’s hands where the faintest trace of chipped blue nail polish clung to the edge of one thumbnail. He didn’t mention it.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “I brought something. For you.” He sped away for a moment and returned with a small, battered tin. “Cookies. Ma's recipe. Thought you might…” He trailed off. “…like them.”

For a fraction of a second, something flickered behind Ultraman’s eyes.

Superman took one step forward, holding out the tin. The air between them felt heavier than it had any right to.

Ultraman’s fingers moved—not toward the cookies, but up, quick enough to make Superman’s shoulders tense. A palm cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the curve of cheekbone like someone cataloguing texture, temperature, symmetry.

Superman blinked. “Uh—”

The grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to make him feel pinned in place by sheer curiosity. Ultraman’s eyes flicked between his features as if comparing them to a mental image, maybe a memory. The seconds stretched, the air in the Fortress carrying only the faint hum of distant machinery.

Superman made himself exhale. “If you wanted to say I need a shave, there are easier ways.”

No response.

Eventually, Superman reached up, fingers brushing Ultraman’s wrist. He expected resistance, but Ultraman let him lower the hand without protest.

It stayed there, though, hovering midair between them.

Superman frowned slightly. “What are you…?” He tilted his head. “Is this... are you asking for a high five?”

Nothing. The hand didn’t move.

He glanced down at the tin in his other hand, then back at Ultraman’s unmoving palm. “Or, you want me to… put something in it?”

Behind him, faintly, Gary’s voice: “Statistical probability suggests he desires physical contact of a non-combative nature.”

Superman hesitated, then carefully pressed the cookie tin into Ultraman’s open palm. The clone didn’t lower his hand. Just stared down at the tin, as though it were a puzzle box from another world. His thumb brushed the dented lid. Slowly and deliberately, he closed his fingers around it.

Superman let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Okay. That’s progress.”

Without a word, Ultraman tucked it under one arm and turned for the Fortress doors.

Superman frowned. “You’re just gonna walk out there?”

He followed anyway.

The doors opened with a low groan, spilling them both into the frozen night. Wind howled across the ice sheet, scouring the ground with a constant hiss. Ultraman stopped a few paces from the threshold, then crouched suddenly, gloved fingers brushing along the snow.

Superman tilted his head. “What are you—”

His hand came up and in his palm sat a tiny snow sculpture. A bird, crudely shaped but recognizable—round body, stubby wings. He set it carefully on the ground, then made another with swift, precise movements, one that looked like a dog, squat and square, with a lumpy tail sticking up.

Superman blinked. The wind tried to erase them, but Ultraman cupped his hands around the little figures, shielding them until they held.

When he looked up, his expression hadn’t changed—still severe, still distant—but his eyes carried something else. Something tentative.

“Heh… looks a little bit like Krypto,” he said, nodding at the snow-dog.

The wind gusted again. The little bird figure toppled, breaking into loose flakes. Ultraman’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t try to fix it. He only glanced at Superman, as though testing whether he understood.

And Superman did. He stepped forward, crouched beside the dog, and with careful fingers pressed a bit of snow onto its muzzle, shaping it into a crude smile.

"So, uh... I never really got the chance to apologize for, well, throwing you into a black hole. It was kind of a spur of the moment sort of thing." The words hung there, frosting in the icy air. Superman gave a small shrug. “It wasn’t… personal. And I don’t expect you to apologize, either. Lex had his claws in you, controlling you. I'd guess you weren’t exactly yourself.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but wind and the faint creaking of ice. 

“Is good thing you hurl me into void,” Ultraman said. “Am not angry. Am… happy.”

Superman blinked. “You’re… happy?”

Ultraman tilted his head. "You do worst thing. Make me grateful."

Superman opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brain ticked audibly. “Oh. Oh, wait.” He rubbed his temples. “You’re talking in reverse aren't you?”

Ultraman’s expression didn’t change. “Am not.”

Superman squinted. “Okay. So when you say not angry, you mean… actually angry? Or… wait, no, that wouldn’t make sense, because you followed it with am happy. So does that mean you’re unhappy? Or—no, hold on.” He pointed a finger at Ultraman like he was working through algebra. “So… if I say, I’m glad you’re here… you would say… I'm sad you are here… which really means… you are glad I’m here.”

Ultraman blinked once, very slowly.

Superman nodded, muttering half to himself. “Right. Okay. Reverse semantics."

Ultraman stared at him with the faintly baffled patience of someone watching a dog try to open a door with the wrong paw.

Superman snapped his fingers. “Got it. Got it! Okay so when you said it was a good thing I hurled you into the void… that really means it was a bad thing. Which… yeah, fair enough."

“Not understand you,” Ultraman said flatly, which Superman was fairly sure meant I do understand you.

“Yeah,” Superman muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m starting to get how this works.” There was a pause as he drew a breath and squared his shoulders to extend a hand. “Look. Whatever the semantics, whatever the baggage. Let’s just call this a truce. Just two guys trying to figure it out.”

Ultraman’s gaze dropped to the offered hand. Long seconds passed. Then, slowly, his palm lifted. It hovered over Superman’s before settling down with a firm and deliberate grip.

The handshake lasted one beat too long. Then two. Then Ultraman’s other arm came up and pulled Superman forward.

Superman stiffened. “Uh—”

It folded into an embrace which tightened with startling force. A camera would have pulled back, framing them small against the endless white expanse, two figures locked in an oddly geometric hug.

Superman’s breath came out in a small huff against Ultraman’s shoulder. “O-kay. Little tight, but if it makes you feel better.” His hands hovered awkwardly in midair before finally resting on Ultraman’s back, uncertain but steady.

Neither spoke. The world was quiet but for the wind and the faint crunch of settling snow. 

A tableau: imperfect men, holding on.

---

"Jimmy... Jimmy! Open the door!"

Lois banged her fist against the peeling wood of Apartment 1A. The faint smell of stale pizza grease and incense leaked from underneath.

From inside came the slow shuffle of socks on carpet, then the creak of a chain lock sliding halfway. The door cracked open an inch.

Jimmy Olsen peered out, his hair a wild and greasy mop, aviator sunglasses perched crookedly on his nose despite the fact it was nearly midnight. A ratty robe clung to his narrow shoulders, patterned with suspicious mustard stains.

“Lois,” he croaked. His voice was scratchy, hoarse, like someone who’d smoked ten cigarettes and cried through nine of them. “Do you know how hard it is to find inner peace when people keep—"

Lois shoved the door wide, chain be damned, and stormed inside.

“Perry sent me. You’ve been missing three days. Three! He thinks you’re dead in a ditch somewhere."

Jimmy flopped back onto his couch, half-buried under potato chip bags and VHS tapes of obscure kung fu movies. He lifted a half-empty White Russian from the coffee table and swirled it dramatically.

“The Dude abides, Lois. But the Olsen? The Olsen suffers.”

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh god, not this again.”

Jimmy waved vaguely, sloshing his drink. “Eve. She's with everyone man. Everyone but me."

"... who is everyone?"

He lowered his sunglasses to glare at her, eyes bloodshot. “First it was Superman... now it's some dude called Gary. You expect me to compete with that?"

Lois crossed her arms, her glare sharp enough to slice through the haze of incense and stale popcorn. “Listen to me, Olsen. You want Eve back? Then you pull yourself together and maybe start by not wearing sunglasses indoors. Clean yourself up, tell her how you feel and then maybe you'll get back on the terms you want with her.”

Jimmy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just sat there, sunk deep into the couch cushions, staring at her over the rim of his glass.

For a long second, Lois thought—miracle of miracles—he was actually listening. Really listening. His expression even softened, like maybe her words had landed.

Then he tilted his chin slightly and croaked, “You’re standing on my rug.”

Lois blinked. “What?”

“My rug,” Jimmy repeated solemnly. “It really ties the whole place together, Lois.”

"... ."

"... ."

Before he could retreat back into his couch fortress, she hooked both hands under his armpits and yanked. Jimmy yelped as half a dozen chip bags cascaded to the floor.

“Lois! This is assault!” he wheezed while flailing about.

“This is an intervention,” she shot back, dragging him down the cluttered hallway toward the bathroom. “You smell like you lost a fistfight with a brewery.”

Jimmy clawed at the doorframe, leaving dramatic fingernail trails in the dust. “The robe stays on!”

Chapter 10: Man of Tomorrow

Notes:

Bit of an early chapter to celebrate the announcement of the Superman follow-up. July 9th 2027 can't get here soon enough!

“—and then Otis had the nerve to tell me I don’t know the difference between espresso and a macchiato. Can you believe that? I mean, I’m the one who brought the coffee tray, right? Like, how does he think Lex gets through those eight-hour investor calls, magic?”

Her words tumbled out in a stream, buoyant and unbroken as she tugged Ultraman by the hand like a wayward toddler. His boots scraped once against the floor as he trailed behind.

Eve shoved her shoulder into her apartment door, pushing it open with a practiced swing. The room inside was a riot of organized chaos: sequined throw pillows, lava lamp bubbling in one corner and stacks of glossy magazines fanned across the dresser like spilled cards.

She didn’t let go of his hand until she steered him squarely inside. Only then did she release him with a flourish, tossing her purse onto a chair and kicking off her heels.

“Anyway... oh my god, sit! Sit, sit, sit.” She gestured vaguely at the couch, which sagged under the weight of stuffed animals, a half-finished jigsaw puzzle, and at least one velvet blanket. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Lex was in one of his moods today. Ugh.”

Ultraman stood still, framed by the doorway. His eyes moved once around the room and then settled blankly back on her and her grin.

Eve plopped onto the couch, tucking her legs under herself. “And you know what? Forget it all. You’re here, and that’s already the best part of my day.”

She beamed at him, all teeth and sincerity, as if her chatter had been answered with equal warmth.

Ultraman blinked. His hands flexed once at his sides, uncertain. Then, after a long pause, he shuffled forward and sat gingerly on the very edge of the couch, knees at perfectly ninety degree angles.

Eve leaned sideways toward him, conspiratorial. “So. What do you want to hear first? The office gossip or the part where I may or may not have accidentally flirted with a very important ambassador to distract him from noticing Lex was totally ignoring him?”

Ultraman’s head tilted. He said nothing.

Eve didn’t seem to mind. She laughed, already launching into the story.

His mind slipped and drifted somewhere in the middle of her tangent as his eyes caught onto the body length mirror in the middle of her room. More specifically, onto the figure staring back at him, clad in black and armed with two lenses on his mask. 

Ultraman’s gaze lingered on the mirror longer than he realized. The glass threw his outline back at him, broad and black in all of its glory. But behind the tinted lenses, he knew the shape that waited underneath.

That face.

That face which was not his own.

An echo of another man’s jawline, another man’s eyes. A warped sketch of Superman, as if someone had tried to draw him from memory and gotten everything just slightly wrong. Too light, too heavy, too not right.

Lex had told him what to feel about that face. Told him that Superman’s smile was a lie, that his very existence was poison. If that was true, then what did it make him? A reflection of poison and a smear? Every time he caught the outline of his own cheekbones he felt the urge to tear glass from the wall.

“—and then she dropped her tablet right in his lap. Can you imagine? I mean, this is an ambassador, okay? Like silk tie, fancy cologne, the whole thing—and she just fumbles it—”

Eve’s words ebbed back into his awareness just in time for her to scoot closer. Her laugh still sparkled in the air when she reached out without ceremony, fingers brushing the edge of his mask.

“Hold still a sec. Your hair’s gotta be all—”

Her hand tilted toward the strap, an easy, thoughtless gesture.

Ultraman’s muscles locked. His hand shot up, quick as a snap of glass, catching her wrist before she could lift the mask even an inch.

Eve froze. Her eyes widened, searching his face through the smoked lenses. “Oh. Sorry. I just thought—”

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go right away. 

Eve studied him a moment longer, then, she leaned back into her cushions, tucking her hand away as if nothing had happened. “Okay. No mask-off. Got it.”

She picked up her story again as though the air hadn’t shifted, as though he hadn’t nearly crushed her wrist to keep her from seeing the one face he couldn’t bear to look at himself.

Ultraman stared at the mirror again, and the figure in the glass stared back.

He hated it.

“Anyway,” Eve continued, her voice flowing as if the moment hadn’t snagged. “I told Otis that if he thinks instant coffee is acceptable, then he can be the one getting Lex’s caffeine fix from now on. See how long he lasts before Lex throws a stapler at him.”

Her hands fidgeted as she spoke, tugging a stuffed bunny closer, smoothing her skirt, then wandering without thought toward Ultraman’s gloves. She tugged at one absent strap, humming like she was only half-aware of it.

Ultraman didn’t move. His eyes tracked her fingers, but his body stayed rigid. 

“There,” Eve said absently, slipping the glove off with a small victorious noise. “You’ve got good hands, you know that? Big. But not…scary big. Just—” She held his hand up to the light, tilting it this way and that. “—big.”

She hopped off the couch in a flash, disappeared into the clutter, and came back with a fistful of little nail polish bottles clinking together like treasure. She plopped them on the coffee table, their colors scattering amongst one another.

“Pick a color.”

Ultraman’s fingers twitched. He didn’t answer.

Eve grinned, tapping the pink bottle. “No? Too much? Okay, then this one.” She held up the gold, her grin daring him to object. “Trust me, it’ll look amazing.”

He stared at her, blank behind the lenses, and yet—he didn’t pull his hands away when she set his palm flat against her thigh and began carefully brushing shimmer across his nails.

"I've been listening to a lot of kawaii metal lately," Eve mentioned off-handedly. "It doesn’t quite hold a candle to Baby Shark but I think you'd like it if you gave it a listen."

The brush swept back and forth, leaving thin, gleaming trails of gold across the blunt tips of his nails. Ultraman didn’t move, though something in his jaw twitched every few seconds like a misfiring muscle.

Eve pursed her lips as she worked, tongue peeking out in concentration. “Hold still. You’ve got, like, model hands. Seriously, if Lex ever realizes that you're not some senseless killing machine, you could be a hand model."

Ultraman’s gaze flicked once more to the mirror. The figure in black armor stared back, monstrous in its familiarity. But when his eyes dropped again, there was only Eve, fussing over his cuticles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“See?” She leaned back, admiring the first coat of polish. "It says: I could break you in half, but I also appreciate glitter. A man of depth.”

His fingers flexed experimentally against her thigh. For a split second, he imagined closing his fist, snapping it all in two. But she just slapped his knuckles lightly with the back of the brush.

“Don’t smudge! Geez, you’re worse than my cousin’s toddler.”

Eve capped the polish with a triumphant click. “There. Gorgeous.” She held his hand up like she was showing off a trophy. “You’re officially fabulous. You’re welcome.”

He said nothing. But he didn’t pull his hand back either.

---

"Honey, I'm—"

Eve was cut off as Ultraman appeared before her in the blink of an eye and then grabbed her hand in his with a clingy sort of nature.

“Uh—hi to you too? Where's Gary and the others?” she just barely managed to ask, heels skidding a little against the polished floor. “What’s with the... oh wow, okay, the death grip. Honey, my hand’s still attached, thanks. Looks like somebody missed me.”

He dragged her across the chamber with the awkward urgency of a child hauling his mother to see a drawing on the fridge.

When they stopped, it was in front of a broad, gleaming wall of ice. Their reflections stared back: Eve with her hair mussed from the sudden flight and Ultraman looming over her like a shadow in armor.

Eve tilted her head. “Ohhh.” She crossed her arms knowingly. “Somebody wants a makeover.”

Ultraman just stared into the reflection, then reached up and tugged sharply at his own hair.

Eve put her hands on her hips. “Alright. You want me to cut it?”

A stiff nod.

He tilted his head toward the nearest console. A drawer slid open, revealing scissors, combs, and an absurdly pristine set of Kryptonian grooming tools. Eve picked up the scissors, weighed them in her hand, and gave a low whistle.

“Wow. Fancy."

Eve slipped behind him, combing fingers through his thick black hair. “Okay, what’re we thinking? Short? Mullet? Because I think you’d pull off a mullet.”

He gave her a look through the mirror.

Eve snorted. “Fine. No mullet.”

She snipped experimentally, strands of dark hair fluttering down onto the crystal floor. As she worked, Ultraman lifted a hand, pointed subtly at the glass then tapped at the mini hologram of Superman behind them.

Eve paused, scissors hovering. “Oh.” Her expression softened. She smoothed a section of hair forward, trimming it carefully. “You want it like his.”

He stayed still, silent as ever.

“Alright,” she murmured, working slowly, shaping the curl at his forehead, the neat side part and the clean lines. “But just so you know… you don’t have to look like him to be worth looking at.”

Ultraman’s hands flexed against his knees, knuckles whitening. In the mirror, Superman’s hair gleamed from another life and slowly, his reflection began to ebb into it.

When Eve finally set the scissors down, she brushed the stray hairs from his shoulders and stepped back, tilting her head at the finished cut.

“There,” she said, smiling softly. “Now you’re… well. You.”

For the first time, Ultraman let his gaze linger on the mirror. The face staring back wasn’t quite perfect, nor was it quite right. But it close enough to ache.

---

"You know, I once planned on killing you." 

Clark looked up, the briefest bit of surprise in his eyes before he scrunched his nose and adjusted his glasses. 

"Oh?" 

"It wouldn't have been anything personal," Lex went on. "I just needed to get what I could out of Superman before killing him and I supposed that since you seemed like his go to source for interviews, it might be enough to get him talking."

Lois’s recorder clicked softly as Clark set it on the table. His pen hovered above the notebook, though he wasn’t sure he’d need it; in his experience, Lex never had trouble filling silence.

"So as I understand it, you're in here because you disagree with what Superman represents."

Lex leaned back in his shackles, the chains rattling faintly as if they were applauding him. He gave a thin smile.

“Correct,” he said. “Do you know what the most dangerous idea in history is, Kent?”

Clark adjusted his glasses. “Enlighten me.”

Lex’s voice sharpened. “The idea that one man should hold power above all others. That we should kneel because he’s strong enough to demand it. He may dress it up with words like hope, but what it really means is obedience. And the moment humanity learns to depend on an alien? As they have, humanity stops being human.”

Clark scribbled something, though his eyes never left Lex.

“You think people can’t be inspired without being ruled?”

“Inspired?” Lex barked a laugh. “Please. Children grow up drawing that symbol on their notebooks, praying he'll swoop down and save them when the world gets hard. Do you know what that breeds? Weakness. A population that never learns to fight for itself because they expect a god in tights to do it for them.”

“You really believe that’s what Superman wants? To be worshipped?”

Lex’s eyes glittered. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. It matters what they see. And they see an omnipotent savior. And once humanity kneels, Kent, once they let an alien decide what’s right and wrong, then civilization is over. You cannot have freedom when your existence hinges on the mood of one creature who isn’t even human.”

Clark’s pen paused over the page. His expression shifted subtly.

“And that’s why you hate him.”

“Hate?” Lex’s lip curled. “I despise the concept of him. He is an infection. A parasite on the human spirit. The more we celebrate him, the more we tell ourselves we’ll never be enough without him. And the longer he stays, the less chance humanity has of realizing its full potential.”

For a moment, the room was still but for the low whir of surveillance drones. Clark leaned forward.

"And that’s why you’ve done the things you’ve done? Killed Mali, a man whose only crime according to you was handing Superman a falafel one afternoon?”

Lex’s brows flicked upward, almost imperceptibly. “Oh, was that his name? Mali?” He shrugged in his shackles, the motion restrained but deliberate. “I’d nearly forgotten. A local, right?"

“He had a family. Children.”

“Most people do, Kent. That’s not what makes them exceptional. And if his removal drew Superman out when I needed him, then his life served a higher purpose than it ever would’ve otherwise.”

Clark’s jaw clenched. He forced himself to breathe evenly, though he felt the burn in his chest. “And nearly tearing Metropolis in half with that pocket dimension trap? You would’ve collapsed the city on millions of people just to force Superman to play your game.”

“You say that as if it wasn’t worth it. As if shaking a civilization to its knees shouldn't havevfinally taught them what they’re propping themselves up on. You saw how quickly they turned to him, how helpless they were without him. I proved my point.”

Clark swallowed hard, the pen trembling faintly between his fingers. “You proved that you’d risk every innocent life in the city just to win your argument.”

“Semantics,” Lex said smoothly. “History is built on collateral. Always has been.”

Clark cleared his throat hastily before too much time could be spent in silence. "Reports say that you created a clone of Superman."

"Do they? It's so difficult to know when every bit of news I get is censored."

“You talk about how humanity shouldn’t have to kneel to one man,” Clark said, voice tightening. “But what exactly do you call creating a clone you stripped of thought and choice? You wanted obedience from everyone who ever worked under you. How is that different from the world you claim Superman is forcing on us?”

Lex’s smile flickered, the faintest crack in porcelain. “Different tools. Different outcome. I wasn’t building worshippers. I was building weapons.”

He leaned back slightly, letting the words hang before speaking again. “Weapons who never got to choose if they wanted to be weapons.”

Lex’s eyes narrowed, but he recovered with a scoff. “Choice is overrated. People love to think they’re steering their lives, when really they’re nudged by advertising, by politics, by fear. At least I was honest about it.”

Clark scribbled something on his pad, though the scratch of the pen was more to steady himself than to record. “Honest?” He looked up, meeting Lex’s gaze. “You hide behind speeches about human freedom, but what you really want is control. Superman makes his own choices every day and you despise him for it."

Lex’s lip curled into something almost like a sneer, but there was an edge of discomfort beneath it. The chains at his wrists rattled softly as he adjusted in his seat.

“You’re twisting my words.”

“I don’t have to twist anything,” Clark said. “You’ve already said it yourself. You want humanity to stand on its own, but only if they stand on the path you lay down. And if they don’t? Collateral.”

For the first time, Lex didn’t immediately respond. The silence stretched until Clark broke it.

“Mister Luthor… is there ever a chance that changes? That either of you — you or Superman — could extend an olive branch to the other? That this doesn’t have to end with you calling him a parasite and him walking away knowing you’ll never stop?

“An olive branch,” he repeated, tasting the words like something bitter. He leaned back, the chains groaning as if mocking the thought. “No, Kent. Superman and I will never shake hands. The day one of us does is the day the other has already lost.” Lex’s eyes lingered on Clark a moment longer than necessary. “You know,” he said slowly, “even when you come in here trying to be serious, to press me like a real journalist… you’re still… mild-mannered. Bumblier than I expected.”

Clark blinked, unsure whether to take offense or ignore it.

“I should find it irritating,” Lex continued, tilting his head. “And yet… I don’t. You’re… different. Not an alien in a cape, not someone to worship or fear. You’re human. Fragile, fumbling and predictable. Somehow… that’s exactly why I like you.”

Clark’s pen hovered midair. He swallowed, trying not to let the tension in the room spike. “Like me? I don’t follow.”

Lex leaned forward slightly, the chains rattling. “You’re the antithesis of him. The opposite of Superman. Where he is power, certainty and the unbearable weight of expectation, you are… modesty and curiosity. You ask questions without presuming the answer. You look without dominating.”

Clark felt a flush rise to his cheeks, but Lex didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“And on reflection,” Lex said, “perhaps I never really planned to kill you. It would have been… too simple. Where’s the entertainment in that?” He leaned back in his chair, chains rattling as he settled again. “No, Kent. I suppose keeping you alive has always been more interesting.”

Clark exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest easing just a fraction. He kept his eyes on Lex, noting the rare candor, the little fissure in the carefully constructed armor of the man across from him.

Lex’s gaze followed him, glittering with amusement. “You may think me cruel, Kent. And I am. But even a man like me can recognize utility. And sometimes, utility comes wrapped in glasses and a notebook.”

Clark cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. His voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of everything between them.

“One last question, Mister Luthor,” he said, pen poised but unused. “Do you believe that the clone you created, that you shaped… can ever truly be his own person? Not your tool or proof of concept or even extension of your will, but just... himself?”

Lex’s eyes flickered for a brief instant, just enough for Clark to catch the trace of something there. He let the silence stretch, the chains at his wrists rattling softly as if marking each heartbeat.

“Well,” Lex said at last, “I designed him to function according to my blueprint. That was the point. That was… perfection.” He paused, lips curling into a thin, cold smile. “But if he defies that design... if he thinks, feels, chooses, then yes. Perhaps he could be more than what I intended. Perhaps he could be… himself.”

Clark’s pen stayed still. He let the words hang in the room, letting Lex’s rare flicker of acknowledgment settle.

“But don’t confuse my indulgence for optimism, Kent. I won’t coddle the idea. He is mine only until he chooses otherwise and even then…” His lips twitched in a faint smirk. “…I will be watching.”

Clark gave a small, quiet nod. “Thank you Mister Luthor.”

He reached for the recorder to stop it and rose from his chair, letting the weight of their conversation linger in the small, fortified room.

Clark paused at the door, glanced back once at Lex who was staring off at nothing in particular, and left without another word.

Chapter 11: Legacy

He remembered it all...

"Okay," the cop said, still baffled by the scene. "And who are you, exactly?"

The muscular man smiled a dazzling smile. "I'm here to help. You can call me... Superman."

"Superman?"

"Superman," Superman confirmed, wondering in the moment whether he had chosen a name which would stick.

The cop stared at him for a while, eyes passing over his brightly colored jumpsuit and scrutinizing his trunks on more than one occasion. Eventually he raised his gaze with a grin and held out his hand. "Officer Dan Turpin. Pleasure to meet you."

Superman shook the offered hand carefully, conscious of his own strength. Officer Dan’s grip was firm, but Superman’s return was deliberately feather-light.

“Well, Superman,” Dan said, pulling his hand back and glancing once more at the overturned car that still smoked in the middle of the intersection. “I guess I owe you a thank you. Never seen anyone rip a car door clean off like it was wrapping paper.”

Superman looked back at the wreck. The woman he had pulled from the driver’s seat was already being ushered onto a stretcher, unconscious, but alive. 

“Do you… uh… work with the fire department, or the military, or…?” Dan fumbled.

“No,” Superman said. “I just like to help out with whoever needs it.”

Dan studied him for a long moment, then let out a chuckle and shook his head. “Well, Superman, I don’t know where you came from, but assuming you're new to the city, welcome to Metropolis. We could really use more of your type around here."

Superman’s smile faltered just slightly, as if unsure of the proper protocol for goodbyes when one had just torn steel like cardboard in front of a police officer. He glanced skyward, then back at Officer Dan.

“Thank you Officer," he said, his voice warm but carrying an edge of hesitation, like a man still trying on words for size. “I’ll… I’ll be around.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. Not that you’ll be hard to spot.”

Superman let out a small, sheepish laugh. “Right. Uh, take care.”

He shifted his weight, bent his knees ever so slightly, and then, with a rush of displaced air, launched himself into the sky. For a moment his ascent was a little uneven, more leap than graceful glide, but then the wind seemed to catch him, and he found his balance. His cape rippled behind him like a banner as he rose higher, clearing rooftops and vanishing into the afternoon sun.

Below, Officer Dan shaded his eyes with a hand and muttered under his breath, half amused, half bewildered.

“Superman, huh? Guess we’ll see if that one sticks.”

... the first time he fell in love...

“Excuse me! Daily Planet, move it!” she barked, weaving past a barricade of bewildered pedestrians as she bolted down the sidewalk. Her notepad was crammed into the back pocket of her jeans, her press badge bouncing against her chest. The pen clenched between her teeth made her sound like she was muttering around a dagger as she darted across the street.

Ahead, a half-finished high-rise stood like a skeleton of glass and steel, its top floors buzzing with commotion. A crane had malfunctioned during a hoist, and as such, a shipping container dangled precariously, swinging in the wind over the workers trapped below. Sirens wailed in the distance, but Lois had beaten the emergency crews.

“Perfect,” she muttered, getting a good view of the scene. “Front page, here I come.”

A nearby foreman shouted at her to get back. She ignored him, already ducking under a strip of police tape when the groan of tortured metal cut through the air. The crane’s cable snapped and the container lurched forward, gravity claiming it in a heartbeat. Gasps erupted from the crowd and Lois had just enough time to register that, yes, standing directly beneath collapsing tons of steel was probably a mistake, before a blur of blue and red split the sky.

Superman arrived with a rush of wind that knocked hats off heads and sent paper swirling through the air. His boots struck the pavement just in time for his arms to rise, catching the impossible weight of the falling container.

Lois stared, rooted in place, her pen slipping from between her teeth.

“Ma’am,” Superman said, “I’m going to need you to step back.”

Lois blinked, then bristled, her instincts kicking in. “Wait, wait, you’re him! You’re that... what do they call you? Superguy? Superfellow?”

He shifted the weight of the container easily, setting it down with care that belied the strain of his muscles. “Superman,” he corrected.

Lois’s eyes lit up like she had struck gold. “Oh, that’s good. That’s really good.” She was already scribbling in her notebook even as she backed away, though her gaze never left him. “Where’d you come from? How did you do that? Can you fly? Are you government property? Alien? Cyborg? Mutant? And most importantly, do you do interviews?”

"I'm not comfortable answering that. I'm very strong. Yes. No. In a way. No. No. Depends on who's asking the questions."

Lois scribbled furiously, her shorthand little more than a blur of lines and half-formed letters.

“Depends on who’s asking the questions?” she repeated, lifting her eyes with a spark of challenge. “Well, that would be me. Lois Lane. Daily Planet. Top reporter in Metropolis by some accounts."

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'm sure we could find a more appropriate time for an interview," he said finally, glancing at the cluster of construction workers who were still gawking at him like statues.

Lois waved him off, tucking her notebook under her arm and stepping closer. "So, Superman. You come up with that yourself?"

Superman shifted, unused to the way her gaze pinned him like a specimen under glass. “It… sounded right. Hopefully it'll stick."

“Oh, it’ll stick,” she assured him. “It’s headline material. You couldn’t have picked better if you had a PR team. Which—” she tilted her head, “—you don’t, right? We don't have to worry about LordTech sponsored underwear coming to stores anytime soon do we?”

His brow furrowed, either in confusion or offense. “No one sponsors me. I don’t work for anyone.”

“That so?” She arched a brow. “So what you just swoop in, save the day, and then fly off into the sunset?"

"... yes?"

“Uh-huh. You’re telling me Metropolis’ newest mystery man is just… freelancing in a cape?”

Before Superman could respond, the crane above groaned again with a metal shriek that cut through the air like thunder. Another container, half-secured and swaying violently, lurched free of its harness. And Lois, of course, was standing directly beneath it.

The crowd screamed. The foreman shouted something unintelligible. Lois had the fleeting thought of: again? really? Before Superman streaked upward.

He caught the falling container inches before it could flatten Lois into ink-stained pavement. His boots gouged shallow cracks into the street as he absorbed the impact.

Lois let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Miss Lane,” he said firmly, lowering the container to the ground with a gentleness that seemed impossible after such force. “You need to step back now.”

“Do I? I mean you seem pretty good at—” 

“Lois.” He cut across her with a lower, almost pleading voice. “I promise you an interview. Everything you want to ask, you’ll get your chance. But not here. Not now. Please just get to safety.”

The earnestness in his tone startled her more than the rescue prompting her to hesitate. “You’d better not be lying to me, Superman,” she said, jabbing her pen in his direction like a sword.

“I don’t lie."

And then, with another rush of wind and the once more astonished gasps of the crowd, he was airborne again, moving toward the crane to secure the last of the containers before disaster struck a third time.

Lois stood frozen for a beat, her hair tousled from the wind he left in his wake. Then, slowly, she scribbled one word across the top of her notebook, underlined once.

SUPERMAN

... the first time he felt fear...

"Superman!"

The shout came not from a desperate cry for help, but from a chorus of young, distinctly unafraid and eager voices. Superman turned from the smoking crater where the Ultra-Humanite’s stolen gravity cannon lay in twisted ruin. The air still shimmered with heat, the acrid tang of ozone clinging to his senses. He had braced himself for more combat or for another ambush. Instead, what greeted him was far stranger.

Children.

A half-dozen of them, tumbling out from behind a toppled food cart where they’d taken cover, their faces streaked with dirt and eyes wide with excitement. They rushed him without hesitation, swarming over cracked pavement with the fearlessness only youth possessed.

“You really can fly!” a girl squealed, trying to tug at the edge of his cape.

“Are you bulletproof?” another chimed, poking at the blue fabric stretched across his arm.

“Do you eat?”

“Can you throw a car? Can you throw me?”

They were on him before he could react, hands tugging at his cape, voices and questions overlapping and peppering him faster than bullets ever could. One clambered up to his knee like it was a mountain to be climbed, another tugged down on his belt, and a third tried to jump high enough to see if his cape was detachable.

He crouched slightly, letting his eyes fall level with theirs. “Alright, one at a time,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Yes, I can fly. Yes, I eat, usually a lot. And no—” he ruffled the boy’s hair who had asked, “—I don’t throw kids. Not even for practice.”

Superman chuckled as the questions kept coming, the children’s curiosity relentless.

“Can you see through walls?” a boy with a scraped cheek asked.

“Sometimes,” Superman admitted. “But only when I really need to.”

“What about space? Can you breathe in space?” another piped up.

“Not exactly. I hold my breath. It's like swimming without the water.”

The children gasped in awe, and one of them tugged again at his cape, marveling at the fabric. For a fleeting moment, Superman felt something like peace, like his presence meant only what he wished for it to mean. No fear or suspicion. Only hope.

Before he could revel in it too much, a sound caught his ears before it could be registered by anyone else did.

Behind him, the shattered wreck of the gravity cannon shuddered and from its wreckage rose a familiar, monstrous silhouette. The Ultra-Humanite, his pale bulk smeared with ash. In his massive hands he hefted a jagged hunk of steel like a club.

Time slowed as Superman’s stomach dropped.

He saw the arc of the weapon beginning to rise. He saw the children at his feet obliviously laughing, still tugging at his boots. He saw how close they were. Too close.

Fear clenched at him. The thought that he might not be fast enough biting at his heels.

In a haze, he surged upward, the cape whipping around the children like a shield. He caught the Ultra-Humanite’s makeshift club mid-swing, the impact shattering the steel into shards that skittered harmlessly across the street.

The gorilla-like genius roared, lunging forward, but Superman didn’t give him the chance. He clamped both hands around the villain’s chest, lifted him clean off the ground, and hurled him into the ruined cannon with bone-rattling force. Sparks erupted as machinery collapsed and with a final groan the Ultra-Humanite lay still, buried beneath the wreckage.

“Is everyone okay?” he asked, his heart still pounding.

The kids blinked at him, wide-eyed.

“That was amazing!” one shouted, throwing both arms up.

“You beat him in, like, three seconds!” another cheered.

Superman let out a shaky laugh, relief flooding him as his fear melted into something gentler. He crouched again, brushing dust from one boy’s shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re safe. That’s the important part.”

But inside, he carried the ice of that moment—the cold weight in his stomach when he’d realized, for the first time since donning the cape, how terrifying it could be to care.

... waking up every morning and putting one foot in front of the other despite not knowing what to do...

Clark lay still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if answers might etch themselves into the plaster. The pale morning light leaked in around the edges of his curtains. His phone buzzed again on the nightstand, its persistent hum cutting through the silence. He hadn’t really slept, not with that hum throughout the night which kept circling like hungry vultures.

With a sigh, he turned his head and reached for the device. The screen lit up with a cascade of alerts: headlines stacked on headlines.

BORAVIA TROOPS CROSS INTO JAHANUPAR.

CONFLICT ESCALATES AT BORDER.

CIVILIAN EVACUATIONS BEGIN.

Videos played automatically in the feed of columns of smoke rising over villages, faces streaked with ash and tears and soldiers firing into chaos. He swiped past them quickly.

Not my country. Not my war.

That was what some part of him whispered. The part that knew Boravia was a nation backed by the United States of America and were only executing their "liberation" because the United States had given implied consent.

But another part of him, the larger and louder part, chewed at the thought until it hurt.

He pressed his phone face-down on the table, shutting the light away, and sat up. For a long moment he just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. He gnawed at his lip, the taste of copper faint where he’d bitten it raw in the night.

Finally, he exhaled with resignation.

The floor creaked softly under his weight as he crossed the room. In the corner, half-shadowed by morning gloom, his suit hung waiting. The blue seemed darker in the dim light, the red cape folded across the back of a chair like some regal standard left in exile. His boots sat neatly below, polished and ready.

He slid into the suit. Tugged it into place, piece by piece, drawing the cape over his shoulders until it settled against his back and neck, before pulling on his boots.

Clark straightened, drew in a breath, and let the man called Superman leave the apartment in his stead.

A moment later, the curtains fluttered in the sudden draft as he launched himself into the sky.

... trying to make good choices... 

The tank’s cannon fired.

In the instant that followed, Superman saw everything in sharp, terrible clarity—the flare of ignition, the shell twisting as it tore through the air and the girl clutching her mother and screwing her eyes shut. They thought it to be the end.

He surged forward as smoke unfurled in suspended spirals, the projectile dragging its fiery tail through the sky. He reached out and closed his hand around it. For a heartbeat, molten metal seared against his palm. Then he crushed it to powder, the explosion that should have ended lives dissolving into silence.

When sound returned, it wasn’t a blast. It was a whisper.

“Superman…”

He turned his head, scanning the camp. Dozens of wide, astonished faces stared back at him. The word passed from lip to lip, gathering up strength from a meager start.

“Superman!”

The chant swelled as Superman’s eyes flicked to the destroyed tank—the first of many he had decided. He looked back at them. The mother’s tears glistened, no longer born of terror but of release. The girl stared up at him with trembling disbelief before finding her own voice.

“Superman!”

His name rang out, cracked but fierce, and the crowd carried it higher, stronger, until it filled the air.

“Superman! Superman! Superman!”

And be human...

Ultraman’s eyes cracked open in the expanse of the Fortress.

---

"Everyone clear the area," Guy said through the megaphone he had just constructed from his ring. “And by clear the area I mean run away screaming, people! Yeesh, you’d think this was your first supervillain attack.”

The crowd wasn’t listening. Half of Metropolis was gawking, phones out.

“Are you serious?” Guy barked, a hand on his hip. “You’re about to get pancaked by a giant gorilla and you’re livestreaming it? That’s what’s wrong with society!”

“Guy!” Hawkgirl’s wings snapped open, scattering dust and loose paper as she vaulted over a car. “Less yelling, more helping.”

“I am helping,” Guy shot back. “I’m helping keep these yahoos from turning into grape jelly under King Kong’s foot.”

Whatever else was meant to be said got drowned out by the roar of a thirty-foot gorilla tearing through a parking garage. Chunks of concrete cascaded down, cars flattened under a fist the size of a moving van.

“On it!” Metamorpho called, his body turning into a wide sheet of iron that stretched up like an emergency barricade, holding the top floor of the garage just long enough for civilians to scramble out.

“Go, go, move it!” Mister Terrific’s T-spheres swooped in, projecting hard-light arrows toward the nearest exits. His voice cut sharp over the din. “This way—don’t film, just run!”

“No, no, no, film it!” Guy yelled, still hovering near the crowd. "That way when you die at least it'll be cinematic!"

Superman rocketed upward, intercepting a steel beam the gorilla hurled straight at a row of bystanders. He caught it just before it could spear through the ground, setting it gently aside. 

The gorilla bellowed, pounding its chest. It swung a bus like a baseball bat.

Superman blurred forward, catching the bus mid-swing and setting it upright as terrified passengers scrambled out.

“Get these people out of here!”

“Already on it,” Mister Terrific said. “Though some of them are still—”

“—taking selfies,” Guy finished, flying backward as the gorilla’s massive palm swiped at him. He zipped higher, gesturing furiously at a group of teens posing with the monster in the background. "You seeing this?"

His ring lit up, constructing a glowing green jackhammer that slammed against the gorilla’s arm.

The beast staggered, grabbed a lamppost, and tried to use it as a spear. Superman ripped it free before it could land, tossing it a block away.

“Metamorpho!” Superman called. “Go for the legs!”

“You got it!” 

He shifted, liquefying into quick-drying concrete that pooled thick around the gorilla’s ankles. The creature thrashed, cracking pavement with every heave and eventually tearing free of Metamorpho’s hold with a shattering crunch of pavement, sending chunks of concrete flying like shrapnel. Hawkgirl darted through the debris, her mace smashing a jagged slab before it could hit a cluster of civilians.

“Keep it busy!” she shouted, wings beating hard against the updraft.

Mister Terrific’s T-spheres zapped the gorilla’s eyes with bursts of light, disorienting it for precious seconds. Guy conjured up a glowing green wrecking ball and slammed it into the beast’s shoulder.

“Yeah, how’s that for enrichment, you overgrown zoo escapee?”

The gorilla swiped back, the blow sending Guy pinwheeling through a billboard.

Superman was everything everywhere all at once, catching a collapsing fire escape, intercepting falling cars and dragging civilians clear. 

The monster’s foot came down hard, ripping through asphalt. He heard the scream before he saw it: a boy, no older than ten, frozen in the middle of the street. A toy airplane was clutched in his hand, eyes wide at the impossible size of the descending shadow.

Superman’s breath caught. His muscles surged, every fiber of him burning forward, but he knew it even as he pushed past the sound barrier... he was too late.

Time stretched. The roar of the gorilla slowed to a low, vibrating rumble. The crowd’s screams bent into a distorted wail. Superman could see the boy’s hair lifting in the wind of the incoming impact, could feel the distance still between them. Too much. Too far.

Another figure cut across the stillness casuing the world to snap back into motion as Ultraman slammed into the scene, scooping the boy up and streaking him out of harm’s way a split second before the ape’s foot crushed the ground into rubble.

The shockwave of the impact rocked the street, sending cars skidding and windows shattering. Dust plumed high, swallowing the figures inside.

When it cleared, Superman was standing over the crater, his chest heaving. Across the way, Ultraman held the boy, still clutching his plane with both hands.

Ultraman’s head tilted, his face catching the light. 

Superman froze mid-stride, caught between relief and the unease crawling cold up his spine.

The crowd gasped in unison, hundreds of phones rising higher as two capes snapped in the Metropolis wind.

Jimmy Olsen lowered his camera just enough to glare past the crowd. His jaw tightened, muttering under his breath.

“Great. Just great. As if competing with one Superman wasn’t hard enough, now it’s buy one, get one free.”

He snapped a quick photo anyway, the lens catching both figures in the same frame: Superman and Ultraman in sunlight, the boy and his toy plane glinting between them.

Click

“Double the what?!” Perry White’s voice boomed across the Daily Planet like a thunderclap. His suspenders strained as he slammed the morning edition mockup onto his desk. “Kent, Lane, Olsen. I need you front and center! And somebody get research working overtime, I want everything we’ve got on this second Superman. Background, origin, dental records if you can find them.”

Phones rang and vibrated in every pocket and on every desk and keyboards clacked.

“Lois I want you on scene quotes and eyewitnesses, the works. Kent, give me the straight truth—what’s his deal, where’d he come from and why now? And Olsen—” Perry’s glare landed squarely on Jimmy, who was already slumping into his chair. “—pictures. I want more pictures. If there’s two Supermen out there, I want their mugs plastered across page one before the Post even knows how to spell it.”

Jimmy raised his camera like a salute, muttering under his breath as he shuffled toward his desk. “Yeah, yeah. Double the Supermen, double the heartbreak.”

Lois rolled her eyes, brushing past him and over to Clark's desk where she looked over his shoulder.

DOUBLE THE SUPERMEN: FRIEND, FOE, OR SOMETHING ELSE?

"Interesting angle you're going for there."

He glanced once across the bullpen. Perry was chewing out copy in the far corner, Jimmy was sulking behind his desk and the rest of the staff were too wrapped up in the frenzy to pay attention.

He lowered his voice. “I’ll… see what I can do about getting quotes. Some from him, and some from—well.” He gave the barest ghost of a smile. “From me.”

Lois leaned one hip against his desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowing like she was trying to see through more than just Clark Kent’s glasses.

“You’re awfully calm about this."

Clark kept his gaze on the typewriter keys, fingers hovering but not striking. “He’s not whatever he used to be,” he said carefully. “The way he saved that boy today, it wasn’t just for show."

"You don’t think it’s at least a little unsettling? I mean, a regular clone is one thing, but to dress up as you and do the things you do?"

Clark finally looked up, meeting her eyes. “Lois, he’s harmless. He’s… trying. If the world can see what I and many others saw—that he’ll risk himself to protect a child and a stranger—then maybe they’ll understand.”

“You know what you sound like?”

Clark tilted his head. “What?”

“A guy defending his long-lost brother who just showed up to Thanksgiving uninvited.”

Clark chuckled softly. “Maybe. But if that’s true… then the least I can do is make sure everyone else sets an extra place at the table.”

Lois’ lips curved. "So what happened after he showed up?"

---

The cape, the boots, the chest emblem, the seams, the familiar curve of the collar, the careful stitching at the shoulders... his old suit.

“My mom made that for me,” Superman remarked.

Ultraman tilted his head. The boy wriggled in his grip until he finally set him down.

The gorilla was still thrashing, each strike making the ground quake. Hawkgirl’s mace cracked across its jaw, Metamorpho reinforcing her strike by hardening into solid steel around her weapon’s edge. Mister Terrific’s T-spheres pulsed in sequence, projecting a grid of binding energy that cinched tight around the monster’s chest like glowing chains.

Guy’s wrecking ball dissolved, reforming into a glowing green bulldozer that shoved the creature backward step by punishing step.

The ape roared, surging against the combined weight of the Justice Gang. Concrete snapped and hard-light restraints flickered. Superman pushed forward, bracing his shoulder against the beast’s chest, adding raw power to the hold. The air filled with the crunch of stone and bone as the ape collapsed to one knee, bound at last by Terrific’s tightening grid.

“Containment field holding,” Terrific said through a sigh of relief. “Barely.”

Hawkgirl hovered at Superman’s shoulder, her gaze flicking toward Ultraman. “And what about him?”

Guy zipped overhead, bruised and scuffed, glaring down at Ultraman like he was just waiting for an excuse. “Yeah, big guy, what’s the play? You think dressing up like Superman’s going to stop me from beating the heck out of you for ruining my morning dump?”

Metamorpho’s steel form softened, shifting into something halfway human again. He squinted at Superman. “Is he...”

For a long beat, Superman just looked at Ultraman. At the boy still standing close by him, safe. At the cape—once his cape—snapping in the wind.

He nodded once. "He's on our side."

The gorilla gave one last guttural roar before slumping, finally pinned under Terrific’s grid and Guy’s bulldozer construct. Sirens howled in the distance. 

“Superman!”

A group of kids broke through the crowd-control line, slipping past the police and ducking around barricades. A half dozen of them, all faces flushed and shining with relief, sprinted toward the capes.

“That’s my cue to leave…” Guy muttered, letting his construct dissolve. “One sneeze and I was down for a week. I would keep your distance if I were you.”

The children skidded to a halt halfway across the cracked street, eyes wide. They hesitated, glancing between the two figures who had their attention. One little girl whispered, “Which one’s… the real Superman?”

Ultraman froze, the words hitting him like shrapnel. His jaw tightened, shoulders tensing as if bracing for the rejection he was sure would follow. The boy he had saved still clutched his toy airplane, standing just a little closer to Ultraman than before.

Then, without hesitation, the kids chose.

They rushed forward, squealing, “Superman!”—but they didn’t stop at Clark. They spread out, tugging at both capes, pressing against both figures, a rush of tiny hands and voices.

Clark laughed, kneeling instantly to greet them, letting a pair of kids cling to his neck.

Ultraman’s throat worked. He tentatively lowered his hand and one brave boy grabbed it with both of his. Another clambered onto his arm, and then a girl giggled as she tried to climb his back like a jungle gym. For a heartbeat he looked almost panicked, unsure how to hold something so small and so trusting.

Superman gave him a nod, smiling as naturally as sunlight.

With newfound confidence, Ultraman bent at the knees and scooped two children up with surprising gentleness, lifting them high enough to squeal in delight. His cape fluttered around them.

“Look! He’s strong too!” one of the girls shouted, gripping his shoulder.

“Of course he is,” Superman said warmly. “He’s Superman.”

---

“Miss Teschmacher?”

Eve blinked and the office swam back into focus—the warm lamplight on the bookshelves, the faint scent of peppermint tea, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. She was halfway sunk into the leather armchair, one leg folded under her, twisting the strap of her purse around her fingers like it was a lifeline.

“Hm?” she managed, forcing a little smile. “Sorry. Zoned out again.”

Her therapist, Dr. Lillian Marks, tilted her head in that gentle way she always did. “That’s the third time today.” She set her notepad aside. “I think it might be worth asking why your mind keeps wandering.”

Eve shrugged, looking anywhere but those steady eyes. “I’m just tired. Metropolis never sleeps, so neither do I, you know?” She let out a nervous little laugh. 

“Mm.” Dr. Marks folded her hands in her lap. “Or maybe you’re avoiding something. It’s very common, Eve. When we drift, when we can’t keep our attention in the room, it’s often because our brain doesn’t want us to touch the sore spot.”

Eve’s throat tightened. She twisted the purse strap harder, the leather squeaking under the pressure. “I’m not… avoiding anything. I’m fine.”

“Eve.” Her therapist’s voice was calm but firm. “You’ve described patterns of zoning out when we approach one specific subject. Relationships. Particularly… your last serious one.”

Eve’s jaw worked, her teeth clicking together before she forced out a brittle laugh. “Oh, well, you know, Lex was… Lex. Everyone knows Lex..." Silence stretched as she stared down at her lap, eyes burning, hands twisting that strap so tight it might snap. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You don’t have to,” Dr. Marks said gently. She let the words linger for a few heartbeats before continuing, her tone shifting just slightly. “But… you did tell me something last week. That there was someone else."

Eve blinked, her head snapping up just a little. “Someone else…?”

Dr. Marks nodded, watching her carefully. “You mentioned another man. Someone Lex hurt, someone you’ve been… looking after since then.”

“Oh.” Eve’s lips parted, a fragile smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Right. Him.”

Her voice softened in a way it hadn’t since the session began, like a thread pulling taut but warm. She fiddled with the purse strap again, this time less like a shield and more like a nervous habit. “I told you about him, didn’t I? He’s… he’s different. He’s not like Lex. Not like anyone, really. He’s… trying.”

Dr. Marks leaned in ever so slightly. “You sound protective of him.”

Eve gave a quick, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Well. He needs someone to be.”

Silence stretched again, but far lighter. Eve’s eyes drifted toward her bag, remembering. Her expression brightened in a flicker of almost girlish excitement. “Oh! I almost forgot. I promised I’d show you... hang on.”

She set the purse down on her lap, rummaging through with quick, eager hands until she pulled out her phone. “I’ve got pictures.”

Her thumb swiped the screen awake, and in seconds, the glow reflected in her eyes. She tapped through the gallery until she stopped, holding the phone out toward Dr. Marks with a small, proud smile.

On the screen was Ultraman. Standing stiff and awkward in a kitchen Eve had clearly fussed over.

In one photo he was sitting at the table, a plate of pancakes in front of him, staring down at the food. In another, a selfie, Eve was beside him, smiling wide, one arm looped through his as if to anchor him in place.

“That’s him. That’s who I was talking about.”

Dr. Marks studied the picture for a moment before glancing back up. “He looks… guarded. But also—” she tapped the corner of the phone screen, where Eve’s grin lit the frame, “—like he trusts you enough to stay.”

Chapter 12: Legacy II

“Chief… you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Lois’s voice cut through the bullpen, sharp enough to make three interns pretend to suddenly need more coffee. Perry White didn’t even look up from the stack of copy in front of him.

“You heard me,” Perry said, chewing on the end of his pen like it owed him money. “Show the new guy the ropes. Make sure he doesn’t trip over his own shoelaces in the process.”

From the corner of the room, Clark winced.

Lois planted her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing. “I’m not a babysitter, Perry. I break stories. You can't just stick me with some—” she gave Clark a once-over, the way one might appraise a lost farmhand who had somehow wandered into the newsroom—“corn-fed rookie who looks like he got lost on his way to a 4H fair.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his glasses. “If it helps, I could—” 

“He’s green, he’s new to the city, and I don’t want him eaten alive before he’s even written a byline. You’re the best reporter I’ve got Lane. So guess what? That means this falls on you.”

Lois opened her mouth, closed it again, and then huffed out a sharp laugh. “Great. Fantastic. My actual job's going to have to wait because I’m stuck teaching Cowpoke here how to use a copy machine.”

Clark’s cheeks colored. “I do know how to use a copy machine.”

“Sure you do.” She slung her bag over her shoulder, brushed past him, and tossed, “Well? You coming, partner?”

Clark blinked, then followed her. 

Not the warmest welcome to Metropolis.

Lois didn’t slow her stride as she cut across the bullpen. Clark trailed after her like a dutiful shadow. Heads turned to look at him, the big guy with the clumsy gait and the nervous smile. New meat always drew attention, but this one looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Lois jabbed a finger at an empty desk shoved up against a support pillar. “There. That’s yours. Don’t get too attached. Most new hires flame out inside six months.”

Clark set his briefcase down carefully, as though he might break the desk if he moved too fast. “It’ll do fine, thank you.”

Before Lois could roll her eyes, a redheaded whirlwind came skidding to a stop by Clark’s elbow and held out a hand. “Hi! Jimmy Olsen.”

Clark’s mouth quirked into a genuine smile as he shook the offered hand. “Clark Kent.”

“Welcome to the jungle, pal!”

Before he could answer, a perfectly manicured woman appeared at his other side. Cat Grant gave him a look up and down, “He’s tall, I’ll give him that. Shame about the suit, though. What, did your mom pick it out?”

Clark coughed into his fist. “Actually… yes.”

A hand clapped Clark on the back so hard his glasses nearly fell off. “Clark Kent, huh? Tell me you’re not one of those guys who doesn’t follow football.”

Clark steadied himself. “I, uh… keep up when I can.”

“Good enough!” Steve boomed, already deciding Clark passed muster. 

A quieter voice leaned back in his chair, offering Clark a measured nod. “Ron Troupe. Don’t mind them. You keep your head down, work hard, and you’ll be fine.”

Clark returned the nod, grateful for the kindness. “Clark Kent. Nice to meet you.”

Lois clapped her hands together, already walking off. “Introductions over? Great. You've got fifteen minutes to settle in before we hit the street. Try not to break anything.”

She marched down the Daily Planet steps notably opting not to use the elevator. Her heels clicked a sharp rhythm that dared anyone to slow her down once they hit the streets. 

Clark, on the other hand, moved with the careful caution of someone trying not to bump into the entire city at once.

“Rule number one,” Lois called over her shoulder, weaving through a knot of pedestrians without breaking stride. “Keep up.”

Clark tried. He really did. But the crush of bodies on the sidewalk felt like a tide, and he was the rock getting shoved this way and that. His shoulders hunched, apology after apology spilling from him as he tried not to knock someone’s coffee onto their lap. By the time he looked up again, Lois’s brown hair and sharp trench coat were already half a block ahead.

“Miss Lane—Lois—wait!” he called, his voice swallowed by honking horns and vendor shouts.

Lois didn’t slow.

Clark spotted a gap between the streams of people and tried to push forward—but then a hotdog vendor called out in a friendly tone.

“First week in Metropolis, huh, big guy? You look hungry. I got a deal for you—special city welcome. One hotdog, only twenty bucks and I’ll throw in the mustard for free.”

Clark blinked. “Twenty? That seems…”

The man grinned, thrusting the steaming bun into his hands before Clark could protest. “Go on, taste of the city! You’ll thank me later.”

Clark fumbled for his wallet. 

By the time he realized what was happening, the cash was gone and the vendor was already charming another tourist. 

“Unbelievable.”

He turned, hotdog in hand, startled to see Lois standing there with her arms folded, watching him like a teacher catching a student doodling in math class.

“You got hustled by Sal the Hotdog King. Rookie mistake?"

Clark offered a sheepish half-smile, adjusting his glasses. “He said it was a welcome to Metropolis.”

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, for crying out loud.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Rule number two: this city will eat you alive if you let it. So stop smiling at every con artist like they’re your new best friend.”

Clark glanced down at the hotdog. “At least it smells good?”

---

They turned down a narrow block where the shine of Metropolis’s glass towers dulled into graffiti and the sharp tang of cigarette smoke. Even in daylight the air felt heavy as if the sun itself thought twice about shining too brightly.

Lois slowed only long enough to fish her notepad from her coat pocket. “Alright, rookie. This is where it gets fun.”

Clark glanced around uneasily. People loitered in doorways, eyes tracking them with lazy disinterest. A pair of men stood at the corner, their jackets loose despite the warm weather, hands buried in pockets that didn’t quite look empty.

“Fun,” Clark echoed, tugging at his tie. “Lois… I don’t think they look very… approachable.”

Lois arched a brow at him. “Approachable? They're not potted plants at a garden party. They’re dealers. Everybody knows it. Which means they know things. Which means we ask questions.”

She started forward, all unflinching confidence. Clark reached out as if to stop her, then thought better of it. Instead he hurried to keep pace, lowering his voice. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

Lois smirked, tossing him a look over her shoulder. “You’re three times their size. What exactly are you afraid of?”

Lois didn’t wait for him to answer, already striding toward the corner. 

The two men tracked their approach, the way alley cats watch a bird they can’t quite decide whether to bother with.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Lois said, flipping her press badge open. “Lois Lane, Daily Planet. I have a couple of questions about the foot traffic on this block.”

The taller of the two leaned back on his heels. “Lady, you must be lost.”

Lois ignored him, her pen already scratching notes. “Funny thing about being lost. Usually means you’re in unfamiliar territory. This block? It’s got a reputation. And reputations make for good copy. So how about we skip the song and dance and you tell me what’s really moving through here?”

The taller man’s smile soured. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. “What’s moving through here is none of your business.” His gaze slid to Clark. “Unless big boy here feels like making it his.”

Clark raised both hands placatingly. “No trouble. Really. We’ll just be—”

The shorter man flicked his hand, fast and sharp, knocking Lois’s notebook clean out of her grip. It hit the pavement and skittered against Clark’s shoe. Lois’s eyes blazed, but before she could snarl back, the taller one shoved Clark in the chest.

Clark rocked back a step, exaggerated the stumble, and muttered, “Sorry, sorry.” He let his arm swing wide as if for balance, clipping the shorter man right across the jaw and sending him crashing to the ground like a sack of bricks.

“Hey!” the taller man barked, lunging forward. Clark tripped over the fallen notebook, flailed awkwardly—and his elbow drove straight into the man’s stomach. Air whooshed out of him, and he crumpled to the sidewalk.

Pedestrians slowed, heads turning.

Clark straightened hurriedly, cheeks red. “Oh gosh—I’m so clumsy. I—I’m so sorry! Honest mistake! I didn’t mean to—are you alright? I really should watch where I’m going—"

The shorter man groaned, clutching his jaw. The taller one wheezed on the pavement, still trying to get his breath back.

Lois scooped up her notebook with a wolfish grin. “This is perfect.” She flipped the pad open, clicking her pen. “Now, while you two fine gentlemen are catching your breath, how about you answer some questions?”

The taller one glared up at her, voice ragged. “Lady, you’re crazy.”

"Crazy works. Now, are you going to give me something I can print, or do I have to have my oaf here accidentally fall on you again?”

The two men exchanged a wary glance.

---

Clark’s tie had somehow gotten caught in the latch. Again.

“Sorry—just a second—” He tugged, only to hear the faint *rip* of cheap fabric. He winced, cheeks coloring. Lois stood in the doorway of her apartment with her arms folded, expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

“Clark,” she drawled, “you planning on fighting the door all night, or are you gonna come in?”

Clark finally freed himself, fumbling the knot of his tie as he shuffled inside. His shoulder bumped the doorframe on the way, and he let out a sheepish laugh. “Guess I’m still adjusting to Metropolis architecture. Doorways are… narrower here.”

“Uh-huh.” Lois shut the door behind him, tossing her keys into a bowl. “Try not to break anything, would ya? I’d hate to have to bill you for any damages.”

Clark glanced around, taking in the lived-in chaos of her apartment. Coffee mugs perched precariously on stacks of files, newspapers fanned across the couch, and Post-it notes wallpapered the edge of her desk. But what snagged his attention and made him pause, was the corkboard above her workspace.

A dozen clippings were pinned there, crisscrossed with red string. Blurry photographs of a red-and-blue blur caught mid-flight. 

WHO IS THE MAN OF TOMORROW?

One particularly sharp photo showed Superman carrying a derailed train car back onto the tracks.

Clark’s throat went dry.

Lois dropped onto her desk chair, flipping open her laptop without looking at him. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Grab yourself some water if you want. Kitchen’s that way.”

She balanced her laptop on the coffee table, surrounded by a minefield of empty coffee cups, folders, and newspaper clippings, while Clark sat gingerly on the edge of her couch, knees almost to his chest, trying not to crush the stack of files precariously teetering on the cushion beside him.

“So…” He cleared his throat, eyes darting over the pages splayed out in front of him. The headlines all carried the same name, bold and impossible to miss: Superman.

“Yeah. That’s the story," Lois said, having followed his gaze.

Clark adjusted his glasses. “You’ve… been following him closely.”

“Of course I have.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Guy drops out of the sky, moves faster than a jet and bends steel with his bare hands. You think that’s not front page?”

Clark nodded slowly. “And… what do you think of him?”

Lois tilted her head, studying him as if she was deciding how much to say. 

“He’s extraordinary. No question. You don’t see people like that every day. He saves planes, pulls people out of fires, catches bullets. He makes you want to believe the impossible. Makes you want to believe that a man can fly.”

Her words warmed Clark, and without realizing it, he sat a little straighter. His hand brushed his glasses as though to remove them, his chest expanding with the thought of finally—finally—telling someone. Of telling her.

“But nobody’s that good. Not really. People don’t get power like that without wanting something in return. Governments, corporations, politicians—they all smile at the cameras while they’re pulling strings behind the curtain. Why should he be any different?”

Clark’s hand froze on his frames. His shoulders curved inward again as he quickly slid the glasses back into place, disguising the flicker of hurt behind them.

Lois tapped her pen against her notepad. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll write about all the saves and miracles. But you don’t just trust someone who can knock down a skyscraper if he sneezes wrong. Not without asking who benefits from the image. Superman obviously wants the world to see a hero. And that's all fine and dandy by me, but it doesn't I won't stop trying to find the truth."

Clark forced a faint, polite smile. “Right. Of course.”

Lois flipped a page in her notebook, pen scratching as she spoke almost absently. “The thing is, Clark, Superman fascinates me because he’s so far from being human. He looks like us, sure, but he’s not. He’s something else. Something other.”

Clark’s gaze lingered on her face, searching. “Or maybe,” he said softly, “he’s more human than he looks.”

Lois let out a short laugh and finally looked up at him. “You’re sweet, Clark, but no offense, that’s not how I see it. Superman is strength and certainty and power wrapped up in a cape. You…” She waved her pen at him, eyes twinkling with the faintest tease. “You’re… well, you’re Clark Kent. The opposite of all that.”

“Opposite,” Clark repeated, almost to himself.

“Don’t pout.” Lois smirked, already turning back to her notes. “The world needs both. Guys who can move mountains, and guys who—” she gestured vaguely at him “—trip over file boxes and still show up anyway.”

Clark chuckled softly, though it was mostly caught up in his throat. “I’ll… take that as a compliment.”

“Good,” Lois said, distracted again by her laptop screen. “Because it was one.”

He leaned back into the couch, his secret still sealed tight behind the glasses and the gentle smile of one mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent.

---

"Hmm..."

Eve opened her eyes groggily, a yawn escaping her as she sat up in bed and turned her tired gaze on the Superman doppelganger who had just poked her awake.

"Ultraman? I thought we were through with the whole staring-at-me-while-I-sleep thing. Was it another nightmare? I know the apartment's not the biggest but it's all I can afford until—"

He held up a brush and a comb.

Eve blinked. “Seriously? At three in the morning?”

He didn’t answer. He only tilted his head, face catching the glow of the lava lamp in the corner and pushed the comb a little closer into her line of sight.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She flopped back against the pillows. “Nope. No. Not happening. Some of us work in the morning. Well—technically in the morning. Eight hours from now.”

Ultraman stayed where he was. Motionless as ever.

Eve peeked one eye open. “You’re not going away, are you?”

A silent shake of the head.

With a groan worthy of the dead, she dragged herself upright. “Fine, fine. You win."

He was already reaching for her hand the moment her feet hit the floor, tugging her out of the tangle of blankets. Eve stumbled after him, doing her best to supress her yawns, until they reached her desk.

She dropped into the chair with a thud, rubbing her eyes. “Okay. What do you want?"

Ultraman’s finger tapped the keyboard. Then again. A heavy, pointed sound.

Eve squinted at him. “You want me to look something up.”

Another nod.

She sighed, cracked her knuckles, and nudged her laptop awake. “Alright, type away."

He jabbed once at the letter N.

Eve frowned. “N. Okay…”

Then O.

Then T.

Slowly, deliberately, he spelled it out.

NOT CLARK KENT.

The search bar blinked back at her, polite in its silence, but otherwise, utterly baffled.

Eve snorted. “Well, that’s one way to break Google. ‘NOT Clark Kent’? You’ve gotta type the thing you don’t want if you want to find it. Opposites, remember?”

Ultraman’s silence pressed like a weight on her shoulders.

She backspaced and typed the query anew. “See. ‘Clark Kent.’ Happy?”

The results popped up instantly: rows upon rows of pictures, most so aggressively average they could have been stock photos. A guy in a crumpled suit, tie perpetually half-loose, glasses sliding down his nose. In one, he was holding a coffee cup; in another, squinting at a notepad. His hair was messy, hanging onto his forehead.

Eve raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s what you dragged me out of bed for? Hair inspo from... what is he, a reporter? A nerdy one, at that.” She scrolled down, leaning her cheek into her palm. “I mean, he looks like the kind of guy who apologizes when someone else bumps into him. You could probably snap him in half by accident just opening a door too hard.”

Eve’s eyes flicked from the laptop screen to Ultraman, who was still standing rigid, but now entranced by the images on the screen.

She rubbed her temple, mind clicking through connections like gears in an old clock. “Wait a second…” she murmured. “Last time you wanted your hair styled like… Superman’s. And now, Clark Kent.” She tapped the image of the reporter, squinting at the familiar swirl at the front of his hair. “Clark Kent, the mild-mannered—” She froze, realization dawning. “Oh no. No, no, no. You’ve been… you’ve been trying to get your hair cut like Superman. He’s Clark Kent. Clark Kent is Superman.”

Her head spun slightly, the late hour making the revelation even more surreal. “Oh my god. That’s… that’s actually brilliant. And terrifying. And kind of genius. And—” She blinked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? This isn’t a test. You’re not screwing with me.”

Ultraman tilted his head sharply, comb in hand, motioning toward the nearest chair with deliberate precision.

“Ahh! Of course. You’re supposed to be sitting down, aren’t you? This isn’t a guessing game—you want me to cut it. Right. Okay.”

She pushed the chair out slowly, gesturing toward it with a hand that trembled slightly between incredulity and amusement. “Alright, have a seat. Let’s see what we can do here. Clark Kent it is.”

---

The next morning, the sun was barely peeking over Metropolis’ skyline, but the streets were already alive with the hum of morning traffic and the chatter of commuters. Ultraman moved among them like a silent shadow, gray blazer buttoned and tie slightly askew, hair neatly arranged thanks to Eve’s midnight styling session. Every step was careful, as if navigating an invisible minefield of potential social hazards.

Sidewalks teemed with people who didn’t see him or if they did, didn’t register anything remarkable. To them, he was just another stranger in a city of strangers. But to Ultraman, each pedestrian, each honking horn, each flurry of movement demanded an almost tactical awareness.

Finally, the iconic Daily Planet building rose ahead, the giant globe perched above the entrance gleaming in the early light. Ultraman hesitated just outside, taking a steadying breath before pushing through the revolving doors.

Ultraman stepped into the elevator, the polished metal reflecting his dark silhouette. He positioned himself near the corner, shoulders hunched just enough to seem smaller, attempting to disappear into the throng of early-rising reporters and interns.

The elevator chimed and Perry White looked over as its recipients shuffled out, cigar smoldering. "Kent? What are you doing here on your day off?"

“Not work.”

Perry’s eyebrows shot up, and he puffed a cloud of smoke that threatened to linger in the confined space. "I hope not. You're entitled to twenty one leave days every year and in the three years you've worked here, you've used only twelve of those. The accountants won't stop complaining about the leave provision knocking their ratios up. Something about IAS 19 and all that."

Ultraman shook his head, suddenly remembering the tongue of man. "Am work. Am not play.”

Perry gave a slow, one-eyed blink at Ultraman. “Alright, I'm just going to assume this is some strange peculiarity that you're not going to bother justifying... whatever you’re doing, you can hang around, but no work. Got it?”

Ultraman inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “Am idle. Am not task-doer.”

Perry snorted and stomped off down the hallway, leaving Ultraman alone to navigate the buzzing newsroom.

He stepped in, posture stiff, gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar-yet-familiar battlefield of desks and papers.

Ron Troupe was hunched over his workstation, frustration etched deep on his face as he jabbed the keyboard like it had personally offended him.

“Damn thing froze again,” Ron muttered, giving the monitor before him a light smack.

Ultraman drifted over, looming at Ron’s shoulder. A few precise taps from his massive hand and programs that had been jammed sputtered open, documents reappearing unscathed.

Ron blinked. "Clark? How did you—?”

Ultraman, feeling put on the hot seat and not keen to explain that he had fixed Lex Luthor’s supercomputer in the same manner on many different occasions, simply tilted his head and answered in a flat voice. “Did not fix. Machine fix self.”

Ron stared at him, then at the perfectly running computer. “Right. Okay. Thanks, I guess. What are you doing here on your day off anyway? I figured you’d be hanging out with Lois seeing as it's her day off too."

Words caught on the edge of his tongue, tangled in the strange rules of his borrowed language. He started with instinct: “Am with Lois.” Then quickly corrected himself, recalling the pattern. “Am not with Lois. Am alone.”

Ron gave him a slow, puzzled look, half amused, half wary. “Right. So you came in to be alone? Surrounded by fifty reporters?”

Ultraman nodded solemnly, as if the logic were airtight. “Yes. Am not surrounded. Am invisible.”

Ron chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to his screen. “Whatever you say Clark. I'm not complaining about you being here. Maybe you can keep Steve company. He hates working Saturdays."

Ultraman left him to it, stalking past until he came across Cat Grant, perched at her desk, flipping her hair while typing out a half-gossip, half-news story.

She caught him in her periphery and turned, ready with a quip. “Hey Clark, bright and early on a day off, huh? What’s the occasion? Forget how to sleep?”

Ultraman just looked at her. Unblinking, unwavering, his stare cutting through like heat vision without the fire. Cat’s smirk faltered, a strange flutter crawling into her chest. Her cheeks warmed despite herself.

“Uh—don’t just stand there glaring like you’re in some spy movie,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear, suddenly finding the keyboard very interesting. “You’re gonna make a girl think you’re… interested.”

Ultraman answered only with a solemn nod. “Am not interested. Am uninterested.”

Cat’s blush deepened against her will. “Good lord, Clark…” she muttered, fumbling for her coffee mug.

"Hey loser!" Steve Lombard clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, having to nearly stand on the tips of his toes to do so. "Rematch is happening soon. Ankalaev versus Pereira two, baby. You putting money on it this time? Or are you still too chicken to gamble?”

Ultraman blinked. His mind flickered through the litany of words which had been uttered into his ears, trying to come up with an appropriate response.

Steve barreled on, oblivious. “I’m telling you, Pereira’s got it in the bag. I mean—” He puffed up his chest, rolled his shoulders, and stomped in a circle, imitating the fighter’s walkout swagger. “You know—Chama! Chama!” he bellowed, hands pumping the air like a war drum.

Half the newsroom looked up and groaned.

Ultraman tilted his head, studying the ritualistic stomping and chant. His eyes flicked to Steve’s hands, to the rhythm of the movement. Something in it spoke to him—a raw, primal display of dominance.

Without warning, Ultraman straightened, planted his massive hands on his hips, and let out a flat, booming echo of the chant: “Chama. Chama.”

“That’s it! I knew you had it in you! I’ve been trying to get you to loosen up for years, and now you’re a fan!"

Ultraman continued, louder this time, fists raised like a victorious gladiator: “Chama. Chama!”

Steve joined in, hopping on one foot, chanting with him. A few annoyed reporters glanced over.

---

"Well, identity theft is one way to spend a day," Eve remarked after Ultraman had finished recounting his day. She was curled up sideways on her couch, bunny slippers on her feet, one hand clutching a mug of instant ramen broth. "You really just strolled in there like you owned the place?"

“Am owner,” Ultraman corrected flatly. “Am not worker. Am not Clark.”

Eve burst into a fit of giggles so sudden she nearly spilled broth down her pajama top. "Oh my god, you're too much."

Ultraman sat across from her, arms folded, utterly unamused by her laughter.

She softened, leaning forward with a grin that faded into something gentler. “Hey. I’m glad you had a good time. Really. You walked around, people talked to you. That’s progress.” Her tone shifted, warm and careful, the way you’d speak to a kid trying on someone else’s shoes. “But listen. You don’t have to do the Clark thing. Or the Superman thing. Or… anyone thing. You’re you. And I like you for you. I always have, okay?"

Ultraman’s head tilted, the lenses of his glasses catching the glow of the lava lamp again. He didn’t answer right away. His gloved hand flexed once on his knee, a restless twitch.

Eve reached over and gave his wrist a little pat, "You just have to be well, you. Whoever that is. We’ll figure it out even if it means more 3am glitter nails and haircuts.”

The front door swung open without so much as a knock, banging against the wall with a hollow thud.

“Eve? You here?—oh.”

Jimmy Olsen froze in the doorway. His gaze locked on Ultraman—at her hand on his wrist.

“Oh, I see how it is. I see. My best friend—my own best friend comes strolling in here like he's Man of the Hour—don’t give me that look, Eve, you know what I mean, don’t act like you don’t—and suddenly I’m the odd man out. Suddenly I’m the extra, the sidekick, the comic relief, the guy with the stupid camera and the freckles! You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t notice the way you were just looking at him, all dreamy-eyed with the lava lamp glow bouncing off his chin like he’s some noir hero? You think I don’t realize that maybe I wasn’t Superman enough for you, huh? Or other Superman. Or—hell—Gary, whoever the hell Gary is! And another thing! Your toes? Perfectly normal. I don’t care what I used to say. I had issues okay? You have normal toes, Eve, gorgeous toes in fact. I appreciated them. Back when we were us. Back before all this—before the Supermen and who even knows what else. Back when it was just you and me and… the universe telling us to get together. It was ours. It was simple. It was real. But now it’s him. Clark Kent over here. I don’t know what he is to you, but you know what he’s not? He’s not the guy who bought you chili cheese fries that one time you said you wanted to try them but didn’t want to go alone. He’s not the guy who sat with you through all nine hours of that director’s cut of Das Boot. He’s not the guy who... I don’t care what anybody says. I don’t care if Superman himself shows up and sings you a lullaby on that couch. I’m Jimmy Olsen. And I’m gonna win you back, Eve. Mark my words. This? Us? It’s not over. Not by a long shot."

And with that, he spun on his heel and stormed out, leaving the door wide open behind him.

"God, I really need to start locking my door. I'll get him an explanation later."

When Eve leaned back, Ultraman had visibly relaxed.

"So what happened next?"

---

"Like I said, I'll call back with the..." Perry trailed off mid-sentence, the cigar nearly tumbling out of his mouth as his gaze snagged on the glass wall of his office.

“Chama! Chama!” Steve whooped.

“Chama. Chama,” Clark echoed in that strange, hollow baritone of his.

“Uh, Perry?” came the voice on the phone. “You still there?”